Skip to main content

Full text of "The Strand Magazine: An Illustrated Monthly"

See other formats

(""rw^nL'' Original from 


(""rw^nL'' Original from 


(""rw^nL'' Original from 



* i 


Digitized by l*.i 



Original from 

V f< 




-^ ^or 



by Google 

Original from 



(""rw^nL'' Original from 


(""rw^nL'' Original from 



r nnf ,| . Original from I 






An Illustrated Monthly 


* Xon&on : 




by Google 

Original from 


AIR-SCOUT, THE F. Britten Austin.^ 

Illustrations by Gerald Leake, R.B.A. 
" ALLAH KNOWS BEST." A Chess Story Raymund Allen 7 » 

Illustrations by G. Henry Evison. 
AMAZING VISITOR, THE Richard Marsh. 630 

Illustrations by Stanley Davis. 

Illustrations from Photographs. 



Illustrations by Alfred Leete. 

BABY SHOW, THE . . .. Mary Tennyson. 96 

Illustrations by Miss Hocknell. 

Illustrations from Photographs. 

Illustrations by Ralph Cleaver. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 

BLOCK " IS MADE, HOW A " PROCESS- Frederick A. Talbot. 734 

Illustrations from Photographs. 

CANTERBURYS' GARDEN, THE Frederick Graver. 460 

Illustrations by Treyer Evans. 

Illustrations from Diagrams* 
CHESS CONTEST, A ROYAL T. B. Rowland. 458 

Illustrations from Diagrams. 
CINEMATOGRAPH, LIGHTNING-SKETCHING FOR THE . . Written and Illustrated by Harry Furniss. 667 

Illustrations by Stanley Davis. 

Illustrations by Treyer Evans. 

Illustrations by E. Oakdale. 

Illustrations by T. Victor HalL 
CRIMINALS, THE LATEST METHODS OF TRACKING. The " Gross " System. Waldtmar Kaempffert. 343 

Illustrations from Photographs. 
CURIOSITIES 119, 240, 360, 480, 600, 799 

Illustrations from Photographs. 

Illustrations by Graham Simmons. 

DAGGER, THE Charles D. Stewart. 742 

Illustrations by Frank Gillett, R.I. _ . 

DANCING FAUN, THE Morley Roberts. 277 

Illustrations by Frank Gillett. R.I. m . 


for Children Translated by E. Dyke. 590 

Illustrations by H. R. Millar. 

DANGER ! Being the Log of Captain John Sirius A. Conan Doyle. 3 

Illustrations by E. S. Hodgson. _ _ ^ 

" DARWIN," A MONKEY lantke Cavendish. 557 

Illustrations by Warwick Reynolds, and a Photograph. 

DEATH OF RANCING-ROARER, THE. A Story for Children Nora M. Craggs. 786 

Illustrations by W. Heath Robinson. „ 

DESPATCH-RIDER, THE .. .. Edgar Wallace. 716 

Illustrations by C. Fleming Williams. _ _ _, 


Illustrations by Rex Osborne. . . ...... 

DIAGNOSIS, THE . . Ausiin Philips. 437 

Illustrations by Alfred Leete. r>/ ■# „ , %M M 

DOG OF MANNHEIM, THE WONDER, ROLF Professor Marcus Hartog, M.A. 153 

Illustrations from Photographs. 

EASY MONEY W.W. Jacobs. 420 

Illustrations by Will Owen. „ . , T . , „ _, 

EIGHTH YEAR, THE Horace Annesley VacheU. 86 

Illustrations by Sydney Adamson. „ , 0j n 

END OF THE JOURNEY, THE .. Maud Stepney Rawson. 4 47 

Illustrations by Kdward S. Annison. . , A — . 

ENGRAVING BY LIGHT. How a " Process-Block " is Made Frederick A. Talbot. 734 

Illustrations from Photographs. 


INDEX. m . 


Illustrations by Bert Thomas, * " ' * ' ** 

" FUNNY AS THEY CAN, AS " 22 8, ,05, 475, 595, 704 

Illustrations from Drawings. ' J 3 ' *' 3 ' W3 » '** 


Illustrations from Photographs. 

GIBRALTAR TUNNEL, THE From the French of Jean J auberl. 401 

Illustrations by Thomas Somerfield. 

GOLF, THE BIG THREE IN. Vardon, Taylor, and Braid tell the story of their beginnings . . . . *02 

Illustrations by Tom Wilkinson. ^ 


Illustrations by Warwick Reynolds. 

HELP! Barry Pain. 621 

Illustrations by Gerald Leake, R.B.A. 
HUSBAND, THE Marie Louise van Saanen. 516 

Illustrations by Balfour Ker. 

IN THE TEMPLE .. .. Catherine S.Kiehl. 728 

Illustrations by T. H» Robinson. 


Interesting Stories M . Gintaro. 632 

Illustrations from Photographs. 
JOCKEYSHIP, THE FINE ART OF Described by Frank Wootton. 39 

Illustrations from Photographs. 
" JUST FANCY ! " Violet M. MethUy. in 

Illustrations by H. R. Millar. 

KILL-SPORT, THE W.G.Clifford. 106 

Illustrations by Thomas Somerfield. 

" LESSON TO LIONEL CUTTS, A " E. Phillips Oppenheim. 212 

Illustrations by Tom Peddle. 
"LIGHT!" Austin Philips. 687 

Illustrations by Steven Spurrier. 

LION STORY, THE RECORD. How I Killed Four Charging Lions in One Battle. Stewart Edward While. 651 

Illustrations from a Drawing by Warwick Reynolds, and a Photograph. 
LITTLE MOOK. A Story for Children Retold from the German by W. J. L. Kiehl. 234 

Illustrations by H. R. Millar. 
LOOPING THE LOOP Richard Marsh. 142 

Illustrations by Charles Pears. 
LUCIFER AT CARRYINCH Matthew Temple. 672 

Illustrations by Thomas Somerfield. 

Illustrations by the Author. 

MAN OF MEANS, A C.H. BoviU and P. G. Wodehouse. 

IV.— The Episode of the Live Weekly 56 

V.— The Episode of the Exiled Monarch 177 

VI. — The Episode of the Hired Past 260 

Illustrations by Alfred Leete. 
MARRIED, WHEN THEY. An Inquiry into the Ages at which Our Celebrated Men Became Husbands. 528 
Illustrations by Treyer Evans. 


Illustrations by A. K. Macdonald. 

MRS. COMBER AND THE DOG HughWalpole. 172 

Illustrations by Chas. Pears. 

The Most Extraordinary Method of Fishing in the World . . Commands Brooker, Rtf. 764 

Some Historic Chess Blunders W. H. Watts. 766 

Accusing Hair James Scott. 768 

A New Kind of Anagram Edward Dale. 770 

Illustrations from Drawings, Diagrams, and Photographs. 

MYXOMYCETES Arthur Morrison. 336 

Illustrations by Rene Bull. 

NARROW ESCAPE, A G.H. Powell. 780 

Illustrations by Warwick Reynolds. 

lUustrations from Photographs by the Author. 
NATURAL STEREOSCOPY Louis Brennan, C.B. 750 

Illustrations from a Photograph and Diagrams. 
NERO JUNIOR Herman Scheffauer. 296 

Illustrations by Balfour Ker. 
NIGHT OF THE BATH, A , . . Frederick Lewis Allen. 552 

Illustrations by Treyer Kvans. . 






OUNCE OF CIVET, AN G . B. Lancaster. «. 

Illustrations by Norah SchlegeL ° 

" OUT OF THE JAWS OF DEATH." In the Home of the Buzzard . . Sir Douglas Mauson. 199. v , 

Illustrations from Photographs and Drawings by John Cameron. 


Illustrations by Alfred Leete. 


Illustrations by Will Owen. 
PERPLEXITIES. A Page of Puzzles 
Illustrations from Diagrams. 


Six Full-Page Drawings. 
Kitchener of Khartum, Lord 
McKenna, The Right Hon. Reginald 

Illustrations from Photographs. 
Illustrations from Diagrams. 

P. G. Wodehouse. 65S 

H\ \\\ Jacobs. 77 r 

Henry E. Dudtney. 95, 220, 335, 470, 58c, 
W. Heath Robinson. 6£> 



Henry E. Dudtney. 7- 

RAJAHS, OUR FRIENDS THE FIGHTING. Some Intimate Character-Studies, Anecdotes, and 
Personal Impressions 

Illustrations from Photographs. 


Illustrations by Christopher Clarke, R.I. 


Illustrations by Dudley Tennant. 


Barratt, The Late Thomas J. 

Bourchier, Arthur 

McCarthy, Miss Lillah 

Illustrations from Photographs and Drawings by A. Gilbert and Ixo Cheney. 

Saint Nikal Singh. 492, 614 
Erank E. Verney. 1 23 
A. E. W. Mason. 699 




Illustrations by G. C. WilmshursL 


" SHERLOCKS," BLACK. The Native Trackers of Australia . . 
Illustrations by G. Henry Evison. 


Illustrations by H. M. Brock, R.I. 


L— The Czar and His People . . 

IL— The Scandinavian Courts 

III.— My Visits to the Courts of Italy and the Pope 

Illustrations from Photographs. 

Illustrations by Will Owen. 


Illustrations from Photographs and Diagrams. 
STORY OF PETER THE ROGIE, THE. A Story for Children. 

Illustrations by H. R. Millar. Retold from the Norwegian by Fhncnce Tapsell 

Harry Harper, itji 

.. .. .. .. .. . 22"" 

D. J.MiNamara. 585 

Violet M. Methley. 500 

H.R.H. The Infanta Eulalia of Spain. 



. J.ouis Href man, C.R. 




By Our Readers. 82 

D. J. McNamara. 585 


Illustrations by Alfred Leete. 


Illustrations by G. Henry Evison. 
TRACKING CRIMINALS, THE LATEST METHODS OF. The " Gross " System. Waldcmar Kaempffert. 343 

Illustrations from Photographs. 
TREASURE, THE From the French of Paul Bourget. 53$ 

Illustrations by P. Baynes. 

Interesting Stories . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . M. Gintaro. 632 

Illustrations from Photographs. 
TWELVE MONTHS, THE. A Story for Children . . . . Translated from the French by E. Dyke. 471 

Illustrations by H. R. Millar. 

VALLEY OF FEAR, THE. Part I. A New Sherlock Holmes Story 
Illustrations by Frank Wiles. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 

. . A. Conan Doyle. 241, 363, 483, 602 

Professor Marcus Hartog. M.A. 133 

Hanna Rion ver Beck. 3*6 





C^f\r%ct\i* Original from 



by Google 




Illustrated jSy E.S.HodXsoia, 

■ iBilMII^IHiiaHI^MJMIIiMl^l^l^i^lllMinHIBVB 

The Opinions of Naval Experts on this striking story appear on page 20. 

j^]T is an amazing thing that the 
English, who have the reputa^ 
tion of being a practical 
nation, never saw the danger 
to which they were exposed* 
For many years they had been 
spending nearly a hundred 
millions a year upon their army and their 

VoL iJviiL-L 

fleet. Squadrons of Dreadnoughts costing 
two millions earh had been launched. They 
had spent enormous sums upon cruisers, and 
both their torpedo and their submarine 
squadrons were exceptionally strong. They 
were also by no means weak in their aerial 
power, especially in the :ir.atter of hydroplanes. 

Copyright, i 9 t 4t by A. Comm DoylifV BofTY U^JU^JMN' 


in spite of its limited numbers, and it was the 
most expensive in Europe. Yet when the 
day of trial came, all this imposing force was 
of no we whatever, and might as well have not 
existed. Their ruin could not have been more 
complete or more rapid if they had not 
possessed an ironclad or a regiment. And all 
this was accomplished by me, Captain John 
Sirius, belonging to the navy of one of the 
smallest Powers in Europe, and having under 
my command a flotilla of eight vessels, the 
collective cost of which was eighteen hundred 
thousand pounds. No one has a better right 
to tell the story than I. 

I will not trouble you about the dispute 
concerning the Colonial frontier, embittered, 
as it was, by the subsequent death of the two 
missionaries. A naval officer has nothing to 
do with politics. I only came upon the scene 
after the ultimatum had been actually 
received. Admiral Horli had been summoned 
to the Presence, and he asked that I should 
be allowed to accompany him, because he 
happened to know that I had some clear ideas 
as to the weak points of England and also 
some schemes as to how to take advantage 
of them. There were only four of us present 
at this meeting — the King, the Foreign 
Secretary, Admiral Horli, and myself. The 
time allowed by the ultimatum expired in 
forty-eight hours. 

I am not breaking any confidence when I 
say that both the King and the Minister were 
in favour of a surrender. They saw no possi- 
bility of standing up against the colossal 
power of Great Britain. The Minister had 
drawn up an acceptance of the British terms, 
and the King sat with it before him on the 
table. I saw the tears of anger and humilia- 
tion run down his cheeks as he looked at it. 

" I fear that there is no possible alterna- 
tive, Sire," said the Minister. " Our envoy in 
London has just sent this report, which shows 
that the public and the Press are more united 
than he has ever known them. The feeling 
is intense, especially since the rash act of 
Malort in desecrating the flag. We must give 

The King looked sadly at Admiral Horli. 

" What is your effective fleet, Admiral ? " 
he asked. 

" Two battleships, four cruisers, twenty 
torpedo-boats, and eight submarines," said 
the Admiral. 

The King shook his head. 

" It would be madness to resist," said 

" And yet, Sire," said the Admiral, " before 
you come to a decision I should wish you to 
Digiiiz&d by Lit 

hear Captain Sirius, who has a very defir 
plan of campaign against the English.' * 

" Absurd ! " said the King, impatient 
" What is the use ? Do you imagine that 3 
could defeat their vast armada ? " 

" Sire," I answered, " I will stake my ; 
that if you will follow my advice you v* 
within a month or six weeks at the utmc 
bring proud England to her knees." 

There was an assurance in my voice whi 
arrested the attention of the King. 

" You seem self-confident, Captain Sirius 

" I have no doubt at all, Sire." 

" What then would you advise ? " 

" I would advise, Sire, that the whole fle 
be gathered under the forts of Blankenbei 
and be protected from attack by booms ar 
piles. There they can stay till the war 
over. The eight submarines, however, yc 
will leave in my charge to use as I think fit. 

" Ah, you would attack the English battl* 
ships with submarines ? " 

" Sire, I- would never go near an Englis 

" And why not ? " 

" Because they might injure me, Sire." 

" What, a sailor and afraid ? " 

" My life belongs to the country, Sire. I1 
is nothing. But these eight ships — every- 
thing depends upon them. I could not risl 
them. Nothing would induce me to fight." 

" Then what will you do ? " 

" I will tell you, Sire." And I did so. For 
half an hour I spoke. I was clear and strong 
and definite, for many an hour on a lonely 
watch I had spent in thinking out every 
detail. I held them enthralled. The King 
never took his eyes from my face. The 
Minister sat as if turned to stone. 

" Are you sure of all this ? " 

" Perfectly, Sire." 

The King rose from the table. 

" Send no answer to the ultimatum," said 
he. " Announce in both Houses that wc 
stand firm in the face of menace. Admiral 
Horli, you will in all respects carry out that 
which Captain Sirius may demand in further- 
ance of his plan. Captain Sirius, the field is 
clear. Go forth and do as you have said. A 
grateful King will know how to reward you." 

I need not trouble you by telling you the 
measures which were taken at Blankenberg, 
since, as you are aware, the fortress and the 
entire fleet were destroyed by the British 
within a week of the declaration of war. I 
will confine myself to my own plans, which 
had so glorious and final a result. 

The fame of my eight submarines, Alpha, 
Beta, Gamma, Theta, Delia, Epsilon, Iota, 



and Kappa, have spread through the world 
to such an extent that people have begun to 
think that there was something peculiar in 
their form and capabilities. This is not so. 
Four of them, the Delta, Epsilon, Iota, and 
Kappa,were, it is true, of the very latest model, 
but had their equals (though not their 
superiors) in the navies of all the great 
Powers. As to Alpha, Beta, Gamma, and 
Theta, they were by no means modern vessels, 
and found their prototypes in the old F class 
of British boats, having a submerged displace- 
ment of eight hundred tons, with heavy oil 
engines of sixteen hundred horse-power, giving 
them a speed of eighteen knots on the surface 
and of twelve knots submerged. Their length 
was one hundred and eighty - six and their 
breadth twenty-four feet. They had a radius 
of action of four thousand miles and a sub- 
merged endurance of nine hours. These were 
considered the latest word in 191 5, but the 
four new boats exceeded them in all respects. 
Without troubling you with precise figures, 
I may say that they represented roughly a 
twenty-five per cent, advance upon the older 
boats, and were fitted with several auxiliary 
engines which were wanting in the others. 
At my suggestion, instead of carrying eight 
of the very large Bakdorf torpedoes, which 
are nineteen feet long, weigh half a ton, and 
are charged with two hundred pounds of wet 
gun-cotton, we had tubes designed for eighteen 
of less than half the size. It was my design 
to make myself independent of my base. 

And yet it was clear that I must have a 
base, so I made arrangements at once with 
that object. Blankenberg was the last place 
I would have chosen. Why should I have a 
port of any kind ? Ports would be watched 
or occupied. Any place would do for me. I 
finally chose a small villa standing alone 
nearly five miles from any village and thirty 
miles from any port. To this I ordered 
them to convey, secretly by night, oil, spare 
parts, extra torpedoes, storage batteries, 
reserve periscopes, and everything that I could 
need for refitting. The little white-washed 
villa of a retired confectioner — that was the 
base from which I operated against England. 

The boat^ lay at Blankenberg, and thither 
I went. They were working frantically at 
the defences, and they had only to look sea- 
wards to be spurred to fresh exertions. The 
British fleet was assembling. The ultimatum 
had not yet expired, but it was evident that a 
blow would be struck the instant that it did. 
Four of their aeroplanes, circling at an 
immense height, were surveying our defences. 
From the top of the lighthouse I counted 

thirty battleships and cruisers in the offing, 
with a number of the trawlers with which in 
the British service they break through the 
mine-fields. The approaches were actually 
sown with two hundred mines, half contact 
and half observation, but the result showed 
that they were insufficient to hold off the 
enemy, since three days later both town and 
fleet were speedily destroyed. 

However, I am not here to tell you the 
incidents of the war, but to explain my own 
part in it, which had such a decisive effect 
upon the result. My first action was to send 
my four second-class boats away instantly 
to the point which I had chosen for my base. 
There they were to wait submerged, lying 
with negative buoyancy upon the sands in 
twenty foot of water, and rising only at night. 
My strict orders were that they were to 
attempt nothing upon the enemy, however 
tempting the opportunity. All they had to do 
was to remain intact and unseen, until they 
received further orders. Having made this 
clear to Commander Panza, who had tharge 
of this reserve flotilla, I shook him by the 
hand and bade him farewell, leaving with him 
a sheet of notepaper upon which I had ex- 
plained the tactics to be used and given him 
certain general principles which he could apply 
as circumstances demanded. 

My whole attention was now given to my 
own flotilla, which I divided into two divisions, 
keeping Iota and Kappa under my own com- 
mand, while Captain Miriam had Delta and 
Epsilon. He was to operate separately in 
the British Channel, while my station was the 
Straits of Dover. I made the whole plan of 
campaign clear to him. Then I saw that each 
ship was provided with all it could carry. 
Each had forty tons of heavy oil for surface 
propulsion and charging the dynamo which 
supplied the electric engines under water. 
Each had also eighteen torpedoes as explained 
and five hundred rounds for the collapsible 
quick-firing twelve-pounder which we carried 
on deck, and which, of course, disappeared 
into a water-tight tank when we were sub- 
merged. We carried spare periscopes and a 
wireless mast, which could be elevated above 
the conning-tower when necessary. There 
were provisions for sixteen days for the ten 
men who manned each craft. Such was the 
equipment of the four boats which were des- 
tined to bring to naught all the navies and 
armies of Britain. At sundown that day — it 
was April 10th — we set forth upon our historic 
voyage. » 

Miriam had got ftwiy in the afternoon, since 
he had r,o much farther to gn to reach his 


station. Stephan, of the Kappa, started 
with me ; but, of course, we realized that we 
must work independently, and that from that 
moment when we shut the sliding hatches of 
our conning-towers on the still waters of 
Blankenberg Harbour it was unlikely that 
we should ever see each other again, though 
consorts in the same waters. I waved to 
Stephan from the side of my conning-tower, 
and he to me. Then I called through the 
tube to my engineer (our water-tanks were 
already filled and all kingstons and vents 
closed) to put her full speed ahead. 

Just as we came abreast of the end of 
the pier and saw the white-capped waves 
rolling in upon us, I put the horizontal rudder 
hard down and she slid under water. Through 
my glass portholes I saw its light green 
change to a dark blue, while the manometer 
in front of me indicated twenty feet. I let 
her go to forty, because I should then be 
under the warships of the English, though I 
took the chance of fouling the moorings of 
our own floating contact mines. Then I 
brought her on an even keel, and it was music 
to my ear to hear the gentle, even ticking of 
my electric engines and to know that I was 
speeding at twelve miles an hour on my great 

At that moment, as I stood controlling my 
levers in my tower, I could have seen, had 
my cupola been of glass, the vast shadows of 
the British blockaders hovering above me. 
I held my course due westward for ninety 
minutes, and then, by shutting off the 
electric engine without blowing out the 
water-tanks, I brought her to the surface. 
There was a rolling sea and the wind was 
freshening, so I did not think it safe to keep 
my hatch open long, for so small is the margin 
of buoyancy that one must run no risks. 
But from the crests of the rollers I had a 
look backwards at Blankenberg, and saw the 
black funnels and upper works of the enemy's 
fleet with the lighthouse and the castle behind 
them, all flushed with the pink glow of the 
setting sun. Even as I looked there was the 
boom of a great gun, and then another. I 
glanced at my watch. It was six o'clock. 
The time of the ultimatum had expired. We 
were at war. 

There was no craft near us, and our sur- 
face speed is nearly twice that of our sub- 
merged, so I blew out the tanks and our 
whale-back came over the surface. All night 
we were steering south-west, making an 
average of eighteen knots. At about five 
in the morning, as I stood alone upon my 
tiny bridge, I saw, low down in the west, the 

scattered lights of the Norfolk coast. " Ah, 
Johnny, Johnny Bull," I said, as I looked at 
them, " you are going to have your lesson, 
and I am to be your master. It is I who 
have been chosen to teach you that one 
cannot live under artificial conditions and 
yet act as if they were natural ones. More 
foresight, Johnny, and less party politics — 
that is my lesson to you." And then I had 
a wave of pity, too, when I thought of those 
vast droves of helpless people, Yorkshire 
miners, Lancashire spinners, Birmingham 
metal-workers, the dockers and workers of 
London, over whose little homes I would 
bring the shadow of starvation. I seemed 
to see all those wasted eager hands held out 
for food, and I, John Sirius, dashing it aside. 
Ah, well ! war is war, and if one is foolish 
one must pay the price. 

Just before daybreak I saw the lights of a 
considerable town, which must have been 
Yarmouth, bearing about ten miles west- 
south-west on our starboard bow. I took 
her farther out, for it is a sandy, dangerous 
coast, with many shoals. At five-thirty we 
were abreast of the Lowestoft lightship. A 
coastguard was sending up flash signals which 
faded into a pale twinkle as the white dawn 
crept over the water. There was a good deal 
of shipping about, mostly fishing-boats and 
small coasting craft, with one large steamer 
hull-down to the west, and a torpedo destroyer 
between us and the land. It could not harm 
us, and yet I thought it as well that there 
should be no word of our presence, so I filled 
my tanks again and went down to ten feet. 
I was pleased to find that we got under in 
one hundred and fifty seconds. The life of 
one's boat may depend upon this when a swift 
craft comes suddenly upon you. 

We were now within a few hours of our 
cruising ground, so I determined to snatch 
a rest, leaving Vornal in charge. When 
he woke me at ten o'clock we were 
running on the surface, and had reached 
the Essex coast off the Maplin Sands. With 
that charming frankness which is one of 
their characteristics, our friends of England 
had informed us by their Press that they had 
put a cordon of torpedo-boats across the 
Straits of Dover to prevent the passage of 
submarines, which is about as sensible as to 
lay a wooden plank across a stream to keep 
the eels from passing. I knew that Stephan, 
whose station lay at the western end of the 
Solent, would have no difficulty in reaching 
it. My own cruising ground was to be the 
mouth of the Thames, and here I was at the 
very spot with my tiny lota, my eighteen 



torpedoes, my quick-firing gun, and above 
all, a brain that knew what should be done 
and how to do it. 

When I resumed my place in the conning- 
tower I saw in the periscope (for we had 
dived) that a lightship was within a few 
hundred yards of us upon the port bow. Two 
men were sitting on her bulwarks, but neither 
of them cast an eye upon the little rod that 
clove the water so close to them. It was an 
ideal day for submarine action, with enough 
ripple upon the surface to make us difficult 
to detect, and yet smooth enough to give 
me a clear view. Each of my three peri- 
scopes had an angle of sixty degrees, so that 
between them I commanded a complete semi- 
circle of the horizon. Two British cruisers 
were steaming north from the Thames 
within half a mile of me. I could easily 
have cut them off and attacked them had 
I allowed myself to be diverted from my 
great plan. Farther south a destroyer was 
passing westwards to Sheerness. A dozen 
small steamers were moving about. None 
of these were worthy of my notice. Great 
countries are not provisioned by small 
steamers. I kept the engines running at the 
lowest pace which would hold our position 
under water, and, moving slowly across the 
estuary, I waited for what must assuredly 

I had not long to wait. Shortly after one 
o'clock I perceived in the periscope a cloud of 
smoke to the south. Half an hour later a 
large steamer raised her hull, making for the 
mouth of the Thames. I ordered Vornal to 
stand by the starboard torpedo-tube, having 
the other also loaded in case of a miss. Then 
I advanced slowly, for though the steamer 
was going very swiftly we could easily cut her 
off. . Presently I laid the Iota in a position 
near which she must pass, and would very 
gladly iiave lain to, but could not for fear of 
rising to the surface. I therefore steered out 
in the direction from which she was coming. 
She was a very large ship, fifteen thousand 
tons at the least, painted black above and red 
below, with two cream-coloured funnels. She 
lay so low in the water that it was clear she 
had a full cargo. At her bows were a cluster 
of men, some of them looking, I dare say, for 
the first time at the mother country. How 
little could they have guessed the welcome 
that was awaiting them ! 

On she came with the great plumes of smoke 
floating from her funnels, and two white waves 
foaming from her cut-water. She was within 
a quarter of a mile. My moment had arrived. 
I signalled full speed ahead and steered 

straight for her course. My timing was 
exact. At a hundred yards I gave the signal, 
and heard the clank and swish of the discharge. 
At the same instant I put the helm hard down 
and flew off at an angle. There was a 
terrific lurch, which came from the distant 
explosion. For a moment we were almost 
upon our side. Then, after staggering and 
trembling, the Iota came on an even keel. I 
stopped the engines, brought her to the 
surface, and opened the conning-tower, while 
all my excited crew came crowding to the 
hatch to know what had happened. 

The ship lay within two hundred yards of 
us, and it was easy to see that she had her 
death-blow. She was already settling down 
by the stern. There was a sound of shouting 
and people running wildly about her decks. 
Her name was visible, the Adela, of London, 
bound, as we afterwards learned, from New. 
Zealand with frozen mutton. Strange as it 
may seem to you, the notion of a submarine 
had never even now occurred to her people, 
and all were convinced that they had struck 
a floating mine. The starboard quarter had 
been blown in by the explosion, and the ship 
was sinking rapidly. Their discipline was 
admirable. We saw boat after boat slip down 
crowded with people as swiftly and quietly 
as if it were part of their daily drill. And 
suddenly, as one of the boats lay off waiting 
for the others, they caught a glimpse for the 
first time of my conning-tower so close to 
them. I saw them shouting and pointing, 
while the men in the other boats got up to 
have a better look at us. For my part, I 
cared nothing, for I took it for granted that 
they already knew that a submarine had 
destroyed them. One of them clambered 
back into the sinking ship. I was sure that 
he was about to send a wireless message as to 
our presence. It mattered nothing, since, in 
any case, it must be known ; otherwise I 
could easily have brought him down with a 
rifle. As it was, I waved my hand to them, 
and they waved back to me. War is too big 
a thing to leave room for personal ill-feeling, 
but it must be remorseless all the same. 

I was still looking at the sinking Adela 
when Vornal, who was beside me, gave a 
sudden cry of warning and surprise, gripping 
me by the shoulder and turning my head. 
There behind us, coming up the fairway, was 
a huge black vessel with black funnels, flying 
the well-known house-flag of the P. and 0. 
Company. She was not a mile distant, and 
I calculated in an instant that even if she 
had seen us she would not have time to 
turn and get away before we could reach 



her. We went straight for her, therefore, 
keeping awash just as we were. They 
saw the sinking vessel in front of them 
and that little dark speck moving over 
the surface, and they suddenly under- 
stood their danger. I saw a number of men 
rush to the bows, and there was a rattle of 
rifle-fire. Two bullets were flattened upon 
our four-inch armour. You might as well try 
to stop a charging bull with paper pellets as 
the Iota with rifle-fire. I had learned my 
lesson from the Adela, and this time I had 
the torpedo discharged at a safer distance — 
two hundred and fifty yards. We caught her 
amidships and the explosion was tremendous, 
but we were well outside its area. She sank 
almost instantaneously. I am sorry for her 
people, of whom I hear that more than two 
hundred, including seventy Lascars and forty 
passengers, were drowned. Yes, I am sorry 
for them. But when I think of the huge 
floating granary that went to the bottom, I 
rejoice as a man does who has carried out that 
which he plans. 

It was a bad afternoon that for the P. and 
O. Company. The second ship which we 
destroyed was, as we have since learned, the 
Moldavia, of fifteen thousand tons, one of 
their finest vessels ; but about half-past three 
we blew up the Cusco, of eight thousand, of the 
same line, also from Eastern ports, and laden 
with corn. Why she came on in face of the 
wireless messages which must have warned 
her of danger, I cannot imagine. The other 
two steamers which we blew up that day, the 
Maid of Athens (Robson Line) and the 
Cormorant, were neither of them provided 
with apparatus, and came blindly to their 
destruction. Both were small boats of from 
five thousand to seven thousand tons. In the 
case of the second, I had to rise to the surface 
and fire six twelve-pound shells under her 
water-line before she would sink. In each 
case the crew took to the boats, and so far as 
I know no casualties occurred. 

After that no more steamers came along, 
nor did I expect them. Warnings must by 
this time have been flying in all directions. 
But we had no reason to be dissatisfied with 
our first day. Between the Maplin Sands and 
the Nore we had sunk five ships of a total 
tonnage of about fifty thousand tons. Already 
the London markets would begin to feel the 
pinch. And Lloyd's — poor old Lloyd's — what 
a demented state it would be in ! I could 
imagine the London evening papers and the 
howling in Fleet Street. We saw the result 
of our actions, for it was quite laughable to 
see the torpedo-boats buzzing like angry 

wasps out of Sheerness in the evening. They 
were darting in every direction across the 
estuary, and the aeroplanes and hydroplanes 
were like flights of crows, black dots against 
the red western sky. They quartered the 
whole river mouth, until they discovered us 
at last. Some sharp-sighted fellow with a 
telescope on board of a destroyer got a sight 
of our periscope, and came for us full speed. 
No doubt he would very gladly have rammed 
us, even if it had meant his own destruction, 
but that was not part of our programme at 
all. I sank her and ran her east-south-east 
with an occasional rise. Finally we brought 
her to, not very far from the Kentish coast, 
and the search - lights of our pursuers were 
far on the western skyline. There we lay 
quietly all night, for a submarine at night 
is nothing more than a very third - rate 
surface torpedo - boat. Besides, we were all 
weary and needed rest. Do not forget, 
you captains of men, when you grease and 
trim your pumps and compressors and 
rotators, that the human machine needs some 
tending also. 

I had put up the wireless mast above the 
conning-tower, and had no difficulty in calling 
up Captain Stephan. He was lying, he said, 
off Ventnor and had been unable to reach his 
station, on account of engine trouble, which 
he had now set right. Next morning he pro- 
posed to block the Southampton approach. 
He had destroyed j one large Indian boat en 
his way down CnanneL . We exchanged good 
wishes. Like myself^ he needed rest. I was 
up at four in the morning, however, and called 
all hands to overhaul the boat. She was some- 
what up by the headjj owing to the forward 
torpedoes having been used, so we trimmed 
her by opening the forward compensating 
tank, admitting as much water as the torpedoes 
had weighed. -We also overhauled the star- 
board air-compressor and one of the periscope 
motors which had been jarred by the shock 
of the first explosion. We had hardly got 
ourselves shipshape when the morning dawned. 

I have no doubt that a good many ships 
which had taken refuge in the French ports 
at the first alarm had run across and got 
safely up the river in the night. Of course I 
could have attacked them, but I do not care 
to take risks — and there are always risks for 
a submarine at night. But one had mis- 
calculated his time, and there she was, just 
abreast of Warden Point, when the daylight 
disclosed her to us. In an instant we were 
after her. It was a near thing, for she was a 
flier, and could do two miles to our one ; but 
we just reached her as she went swashing 




by. She* saw us at the last moment J for I 
attacked her awash, since otherwise we could 
not have had the pace to reach her. She 
swung away and the first torpedo missed, but 
the second took her full under the counter* 
Heavens ? what a smash ! The whole stern 
seemed to go aloft. I drew off and watched 
her sink. She went down in seven minutes, 
leaving her masts and funnels over the water 
and a cluster of her people holding on to them* 
She was the Virginia, of the Bibby Line 
— twelve thousand tons — and laden, like the 
others, with foodstuffs from the East. The 
whole surface of the sea was covered with the 
floating grain* lf John Bull will have to take 
up a hole or two of his belt if this goes on." 
said Vornalj as w t c watched the scene, 

And it was at that moment that the very 
worst danger occurred that could befall us. I 
tremble now when I think how our glorious 
voyage might have been nipped in the bud* 
I had freed the hatch of my tower, and was 
looking at the boats of the Virginia with 
Vornal beside me, when there was a swish 
and a terrific splash in the water beside us, 
which covered us both with spray. We 
looked up. and you can imagine our feelings 
when we saw an aeroplane hovering a few 
hundred feet above us like a hawk. With its 
silencer . it was perfectly noiseless, and had 
its bomb not fallen into the sea we should 
never have known what had destroyed us. 
She was circling round in the hope of dropping 
a second one, but we shoved on all speed 
ahead, crammed down the rudders, and 
vanished into the side of a roller* I kept 
the deflection indicator falling until I had 
put fifty good feet of water between the 
aeroplane and ourselves, for I knew well 
how deeply they can see under the surface. 
However, we soon threw her off our track, 
and when we came to the surface near Margate 
there was no sign of her, unless she was one of 
several which we saw hovering over Heme 

There was not a ship in the offing save a 
few r small coasters and little thou sand -ton 
steamers, which were beneath my notice. 
For several hours I lay submerged with a 
blank periscope. Then I had an inspiration. 
Orders had been mart oniec] to every foodship 
to lie in French waters and dash across after 
dark* I was as sure of it as if they had been 
recorded in our own receiver* Well, if they 
were there, that w p as where I should be also. 
I blew out the tanks and rose, for there was 
no sign of any warship near. They had some 
good system of signalling from the shore, 
however, for I had, not got to the North 

by Google 

Foreland before three destroyers came foam- 
ing after me, all converging from different 
directions. They had about as good a chance 
of catching me as three spaniels would have 
of overtaking a porpoise. Out of pure 
bravado — 1 know it was very wrong — I 
waited until they were actually within gun- 
shot. Then I sank and we saw each other 
no more. 

It is, as I have said* a shallow sandy coast, 
and submarine navigation is very difficult. 
The worst mishap that can befall a boat is to 
bury its nose in the side of a sand-drift and 
be held there* Such an accident might have 
been the end of our boat, though with our 
Fleuss cylinders and electric lamps we should 
have found no difficulty in getting out at the 
air-lock and in walking ashore across the bed 
of the ocean* As it was, however, I was able, 
thanks to our excellent charts, to keep the 
channel and so to gain the open straits, * 
There we rose about midday, but, observing a 
hydroplane at no great distance , we sank 
again for half an hour. When we came up 
for the second time, all was peaceful around 
us, and the English ' coast was lining the 
whole western horizon. We kept outside the 
Goodwins and straight down Channel until we 
saw a line of black dots in front of us. which 
I knew to be the Dover-Calais torpedo-boat 

Original from 




cordon. When two miles distant we dived 
and came up again seven miles to the south- 
west, without one of them dreaming that 
we had been within thirty feet of their 

When we rose, a large steamer flying the 
German flag was within half a mile of us. It 
was the North German Lloyd AlUma, from 
New York to Bremen. I raised our whole 
hull and dipped our flag to her- It was amusing 
to see the amazement of her people at what 
they must have regarded as our unparalleled 
impudence in those English-swept waters. 
They cheered us heartily, and the tricolour 
flag was dipped in greeting as they went 
roaring past us. Then I stood in to the French 

It was exactly as I had expected. There 
were three great British steamers lying at 
anchor in Boulogne outer harbour. They 
were the C&sar, the King of the East, and the 
Pathfinder, none less than ten thousand tons, 
1 suppose they thought they were safe in 

by K*C 

French waters, but what did I care about 
three-mile limits and international law ! 
The view of my Government was that Eng- 
land was blockaded, food contraband, and 
vessels carrying it to be destroyed* The 
lawyers could argue about it afterwards. 
My business was to starve the enemy any 
way I could* Within an hour the three ships 
were under the waves and the Iota was 
steaming down the Picardy coast, looking 
for fresh victims. The Channel was covered 
with English torpedo-boats buzzing and 
whirling like a cloud of midges* How they 
thought they could hurt me I cannot 
imagine, unless by accident I were to come 
up underneath one of them. More dangerous 
were the aeroplanes which circled here and 

The water being calm, I had several times 
to descend as deep as a hundred feet before I 
was sure that I was out of their sight. After 
I had blown up the three ships at Boulogne 
I saw two aeroplanes flying down Channel, 
and I knew that they would head off any 
vessels which were coming up. There Was 
one very large white steamer lying off Havre . 
but she steamed west before I could reach 
her. I dare say Stephan or one of the others 
would get her before long. But those infernal 
aeroplanes spoiled our sport for that day. 
Not another steamer did I see, save the 
never-ending torpedo-boats, I consoled my- 
self with the reflection, however, that no food 
was passing me on its way to London, That 
was what I was there for, after all. If I 
could do it without spending my torpedoes, 
all the better. Up to date I had fired 
ten of them and sunk nine steamers, so I 
had not wasted my weapons. That night 
I came back to the Kent coast and lay 
upon the bottom in shallow water near 

We were all trimmed and ready at the first 
break of day, for I expected to catch some 
ships which had tried to make the Thames 
in the darkness and had miscalculated their 
time. Sure enough, there was a great steamer 
coming up Channel and flying the American 
flag. It was all the same to me what flag 
she flew so long as she was engaged in con- 
veying contraband of war to the British Isles, 
There were no torpedo-boats about at the 
moment, so I ran out on the surface and fired 
a shot across her bows. She seemed inclined 
to go on, so I put a second one just above her 
water-line on her port bow. She stopped 
then and a very angry man began to gesticu- 
late from the bridge t I ran the Iota almost 

Original from 




" Are you the captain ? " I asked. 

" What the " I won't attempt to 

reproduce his language. 

" You have food-stuffs on board ? " I 

" It's an American ship, you blind beetle ! " 
he cried. " Can't you see the flag ? It's 
the Vermondia, of Boston." 

" Sorry, Captain," I answered. " I have 
really no time for words. Those shots of 
mine will bring the torpedo-boats, and I dare 
say at this very moment your wireless is 
making trouble for me. Get your people 
into the boats." 

I had to show him I was not bluffing, so I 
drew off and began putting shells into him 
just on the water-line. When I had knocked 
six holes in it he was very busy on his boats. 
I fired twenty shots altogether, and no tor- 
pedo was needed, for she was lying over with 
a terrible list to port, and presently came 
right on to her side. There she lay for two 
or three minutes before she foundered. 
There were eight boats crammed with people 
lying round her when she went down. I 
believe everybody was saved, but I could not 
wait to inquire. From all quarters the poor 
old panting, useless war- vessels were hurry- 
ing. I filled my tanks, ran her bows under, 
and came up fifteen miles to the south. Of 
course, I knew there would be a big row 
afterwards — as there was — but that did not 
help the starving crowds round the London 
bakers, who only saved their skins, poor 
devils, by explaining to the mob that they 
had nothing to bake. 

By this time I was becoming rather anxious, 
as you can imagine to know what was going 
on in the world and what England was think- 
ing about it all. I ran alongside a fishing- 
boat, therefore, and ordered them to give up 
their papers. Unfortunately, they had none, 
except a rag of an evening paper, which was 
full of nothing but betting news. In a second 
attempt I came alongside a small yachting 
party from Eastbourne, who were frightened 
to death at our sudden appearance out of the 
depths. From them we were lucky enough 
to get the London Courier of that very 

It was interesting reading — so interesting 
that I had to announce it all to the crew. 
Of course, you know the British style of head- 
line, which gives you all the news at a glance. 
It seemed to me that the whole paper was 
headlines, it was in such a state of excite- 
ment. Hardly a word about me and my 
flotilla. We were on the second page. The 
first one began something like this : — 





by Google 


Of course, what I had foreseen had occurred. 
The town was actually occupied by the 
British. And they thought it was the end ! 
We would see about that. 

On the round-the-corner page, at the back 
of the glorious resonant leaders, there was a 
little column which read like this : — 


"Several of the enemy's submarines are at sea, and 
have inflicted some appreciable damage upon our 
merchant ships. The danger-spots upon Monday and. 
the greater part of Tuesday appear to have been the 
mouth of the Thames and the western entrance to the 
Solent. On Monday, between the Nore and Margate, 
there were sunk five large steamers, the Adela, 
Moldavia, Cusco, Cormorant, and Maid of Athens. 
particulars of which will be found below. Near 
Ventnor on the same day was sunk the Verulam, from 
Bombay. On Tuesday the Virginia, Casar, King of the 
East, and Pathfinder were destroyed between the Fore* 
land and Boulogne. The latter three were actually 
lying in French waters, and the most energetic repre* 
sentations have been made by the Government of the 
Republic. On the same day The Queen oj Sheha, 
OronteSy Dana, and Atalanta were destroyed near the 
Needles. Wireless messages have stopped all ingoing 
cargo-ships from coming up Channel, but unfortunately 
there is evidence that at least two of the enemy's sub- 
marines are in the West. Four cattle-ships from Dublin 
to Liverpool were sunk yesterday evening, while three 
Bristol-bound steamers, The Hilda. Mercury, and Maria 
Toser, were blown up in the neighbourhood of Lundy 
Island. Commerce has, so far as possible, been 
diverted into safer channels, but in the meantime, how- 
ever vexatious these incidents may be, and however 
grievous the loss both to the owners and to Lloyd's, 
we may console ourselves by the reflection that since 
a submarine cannot keep the sea for more than ten days 
without refitting, and since the base has been captured, 
there must come a speedy term to these depredations." 

So much for the Courier s account of our 
proceedings. Another small paragraph was, 
however, more eloquent : — 

"The price of wheat," it said, "which stood at 
thirty-five shillings a week before the declaration of 
war, was quoted yesterday on the Baltic at fifty-two. 
Maize has gone from twenty-one to thirty-seven, barley 
from nineteen to thirty-five, sugar (foreign granulated) 
from eleven shillings and threepence to nineteen 
shillings and sixpence." 

" Good, my lads ! " said I, when I read it to 
the crew. " I can assure you that those few 
lines will prove to mean more than the whole 
page about the Fall of Blankenberg. Now 

Original from 



let us get down Channel and send those prices 
up a little higher." 

All traffic had stopped for London — not so 
bad for the little Iota — and we did not see a 
steamer that was worth a torpedo between 
Dungeness and the Isle of Wight. There I 
called Stephan up by wireless, and by seven 
o'clock we were actually lying side by side in 
a smooth rolling sea — Hengistbury Head 
bearing N.N.W. and about five miles distant. 
The two crews clustered on the whale-backs 
and shouted their joy at seeing friendly faces 
once more. Stephan had done extraordinarily 
well. I had, of course, read in the London 
paper of his four ships on Tuesday, but he had 
sunk no fewer than seven since, for many of 
those which should have come to the Thames 
had tried to make Southampton. Of the 
seven, one was of twenty thousand tons,a grain- 
ship from America, a second was a grain-ship 
from the Black Sea, and two others were 
great liners from South Africa. I congratulated 
Stephan with all my heart upon his splendid 
achievement. Then, as we had been seen by 
a destroyer which was approaching at a great 
pace, we both dived, coming up again off the 
Needles, where we spent the night in company. 
We could not visit each other, since we had 
no boat, but we lay so nearly alongside that 
we were able, Stephan and I, to talk from 
hatch to hatch and so make our plans. 

He had shot away more than half his 
torpedoes an&so had I, and yet we were very 
averse froga^turning to our base so long as 
our oil hekftfut. I told him of my experience 
with the Boston steamer, and we mutually 
agreed to sink the ships by gun-fire in future 
so far as possible. I remember old Horli 
saying, " What use is a gun aboard a sub- 
marine ? " We were about to show. 1 read 
the English paper to Stephan by the light of 
my electric torch, and we both agreed that 
few ships would now come up the Channel. 
That sentence about diverting commerce to 
safer routes could only mean that the ships 
would go round the North of Ireland and 
unload at Glasgow. Oh, for two more ships 
to stop that entrance ! Heavens, what 
would England have done against a foe with 
thirty or forty submarines, since we only 
needed six instead of four to complete her 
destruction ! After much talk we decided 
that the best plan would be that I should 
dispatch a cipher telegram next morning from 
a French port to tell them to send the four 
second-rate boats to cruise off the North of 
Ireland and West of Scotland. Then when 
I had done this I should move down Channel 
with Stephan and operate at the mouth, 

by V_ 



while the other two boats could work in the 
Irish Sea. Having made these plans, I set 
off across the Channel in the early morning, 
reaching the small village of Etretat, in 
Brittany. There I got off my telegram and 
then laid my course for Falmouth, passing 
under the keels of two British cruisers which 
were making eagerly for Etretat, having 
heard by wireless that we were there. 

Half-way down Channel we had trouble 
with a short circuit in our electric engines, 
and were compelled to run on the surface for 
several hours while we replaced one of the 
cam-shafts and renewed some washers. It 
was a ticklish time, for had a torpedo-boat 
come upon us we could not have dived. The 
perfect submarine of the future will surely 
have some alternative engines for such an 
emergency. However, by the skill of 
Engineer Morro we got things going once 
more. All the time we lay there I saw a 
hydroplane floating between us and the British 
coast. I can understand how a mouse feels 
when it is in a tuft of grass and sees a hawk 
high up in the heavens. However, all went t 
well ; the mouse became a water-rat, it 
wagged its tail in derision at the poor blind 
old hawk, and it dived down into a nice safe 
green, quiet world where there was nothing 
to injure it. 

It was on the Wednesday night that the 
lota crossed to Etretat. It was Friday after- 
noon before we had reached our new cruising 
ground. Only one large steamer did I see 
upon our way. The terror we had caused 
had cleared the Channel. This big boat had 
a clever captain on board. His tactics were 
excellent and took him in safety to the Thames. 
He came zigzagging up Channel at twenty- 
five knots, shooting off from* his course at all 
sorts of unexpected angles. With our slow 
pace we could not catch him, nor could we 
calculate his line so as to cut him off. Of 
course, he had never seen us, but he judged, 
and judged rightly, that wherever we were 
those were the tactics by which he had the 
best chance of getting past. He deserved 
his success. 

But, of course, it is only in a wide Channel 
that such things can be done. Had I met 
him in the mouth of the Thames there would 
have been a different story to tell. As I 
approached Falmouth I destroyed a three- 
thousand-ton boat from Cork, laden with 
butter and cheese. It was my only success 
for three days. 

That night (Friday, April 16th) I called up 

Stephan, but received no reply. As I was 

within a few miles of our rendezvous, and as 

Original from 





by Google 


Original from 




by Google 

Original from 



he would not be cruising after dark, I was 
puzzled to account for his silence. I could 
only imagine that his wireless was deranged. 
But, alas ! I was soon to find the true reason 
from a copy of the Western Morning News, 
which I obtained from a Brixham trawler. 
The Kappa, with her gallant commander and 
crew, were at the bottom of the English 

It appeared from this account that after 
I had parted from him he had met and sunk 
no fewer than five vessels. I gathered these 
to be his work, since all of them were by 
gun fire, and all were on the south coast of 
Dorset or Devon. How he met his fate was 
stated in a short telegram which was headed 
" Sinking of a Hostile Submarine." It was 
marked " Falmouth," and ran thus : — 

"The P. and O. mail steamer Macedonia came into 
this port last night with five shell holes between wind 
and water. She reports having been attacked by a 
hostile submarine ten miles to the south-east of the 
Lizard. Instead of using her torpedoes, the submarine 
for some reason approached upon the surface and fired 
five shots from a semi ~ automatic twelve * pounder 
gun. She was evidently under the impression that the 
Macedonia was unarmed. As a matter of fact, .being 
warned of the presence of submarines in the Channel, 
the Macedonia had mounted her armament as an 
auxiliary cruiser. She opened fire with two quick' 
firers and blew away the conning'tower of the sub' 
marine. It is probable that the shells went right 
through her, as she sank at once with her hatches open. 
The Macedonia was only kept afloat by her pumps." 

Such was the end of the Kappa, and my 
gallant friend Commander Stephan. His 
best epitaph was in a corner of the same paper, 
and was headed " Mark Lane." It ran : — 
" Wheat (average) 66, maize 48, barley 50." 
Well, if Stephan was gone there was the 
more need for me to show energy. My plans 
were quickly taken, but they were compre- 
hensive. All that day (Saturday) I passed 
down the Cornish coast and round Land's 
End, getting two steamers on the way. I 
had learned from Stephan's fate that it was 
better to torpedo the large craft, but I was 
aware that the auxiliary cruisers of the 
British Government were all over ten thousand 
tons, so that for all ships under that size it 
was safe to use my gun. Both these craft, 
the Yelland and the Playboy — the latter an 
American ship — were perfectly harmless, so 
I came up within a hundred yards of them 
and speedily sank them, after allowing their 
people to get into boats. Some other steamers 
lay farther out, but I was so eager to make 
my new arrangements that I did not go out 
of my course to molest them. Just before 
sunset, however, so magnificent a prey came 
within my radius of action that I could noc 

by Google 

possibly refuse her. No sailor could fail to 
recognize that glorious monarch of the sea, 
with her'four cream funnels tipped with black, 
her huge black sides, her red bilges, and her 
high white top-hamper, roaring up Channel at 
twenty-three knots, and carrying her forty-five 
thousand tons as lightly as if she were a five- 
ton motor-boat. It was the queenly Olympic, 
of the White Star — once the largest and 
still the comeliest of liners. What a picture 
she made, with the blue Cornish sea creaming 
round her giant fore-foot, and the pink 
western sky with one evening star forming 
the background to her noble lines. 

She was about five miles off when we dived 
to cut her off. My calculation was exact. 
As we came abreast we loosed our torpedo 
and struck her fair. We swirled round with 
the concussion of the water. I saw her in 
my periscope list over on her side, and I knew 
that she had her death-blow. She settled 
down slowly, and there was plenty of time to 
save her people. The sea was dotted with her 
boats. When I got about three miles off I 
rose to the surface, and the whole crew clus- 
tered up to see the wonderful sight. She 
dived bows foremost, and there was a terrific 
explosion, which sent one of the funnels into 
the air. I suppose we should have cheered 
— somehow, none of us felt like cheering. We 
were all keen sailors, and it went to our hearts 
to see such a ship go down like a broken egg- 
shell. I gave. a gruff order, and all were at 
their posts again while we headed north-west. 
Once round the Land's End I called up my 
two consorts, and we met next day at Hart- 
land Point, the south end of Bideford Bay. 
For the moment the Channel was clear, but 
the English could not know it, and I reckoned 
that the loss of the Olympic would stop all 
ships for a day or two at least. 

Having assembled the Delta and Epsilon, 
one on each side of me, I received the report 
from Miriam and Var, the respective com- 
manders. Each had expended twelve tor- 
pedoes, and between them they had sunk ' 
twenty-two steamers. One man had been 
k lied by the -machinery ^<fti board of the 
Delta, and two had been burned by the 
ignition of some oil on the Epsilon. I 
took these injured men on board, and I gave 
each of the boats one of my crew. I also 
divided my spare oil, my provisions, and my 
torpedoes among them, though we had the 
greatest possible difficulty in those crank 
vessels in transferring them from one to the 
other. However, by ten o'clock it was done, 
and the two vessels were in condition to keep 
the sea for another ten days. For my part, 

Original from 



with only two torpedoes left, I headed north 
up the Irish Sea. One of my torpedoes I 
expended that evening upon a cattle-ship 
making for Milford Haven. Late at night, 
being abreast of Holyhead, I called upon my 
four Northern boats, but without reply. 
Their Marconi range is very ^limited. About 
three in the afternoon of the next day I had 
a feeble answer. It was a great relief to 
me to find that my telegraphic instructions 
had reached them and that they were on their 
station. Before evening we all assembled 
in the lee of Sanda Island, in the Mull of 
Kintyre. I felt an admiral indeed when I 
saw my five whalebacks all in a row. Panza's 
report was excellent. They had come round 
by the Pentland Firth and reached their 
cruising ground on the fourth day. Already 
they had destroyed twenty vessels without 
any mishap. I ordered the Beta to divide 
her oil and torpedoes among the other three, 
so that they were in good condition to con- 
tinue their cruise. Then the Beta and I 
headed for home, reaching our base upon 
Sunday, April 25th. Off Cape Wrath I 
picked up a paper from a small schooner. 

" Wheat, 84 ; Maize, 60 ; Barley, 62." 
What were battles and bombardments com- 
pared to that ! 

The whole coast of Norland was closely 
blockaded by cordon within cordon, and every 
port, even the smallest, held by the British. 
But why should they suspect my modest 
confectioner's. villa more than any other of 
the ten thousand houses that face the sea ? 
I was glad when I picked up its homely white 
front in my periscope. That night I landed 
and found my stores intact. Before morning 
the Beta reported itself, for we had the windows 
lit as a guide. 

It is not for me to recount the messages 
which I found waiting for me at my humble 
headquarters. They shall ever remain as 
the patents of nobility of my family. Among 
others was that never-to-be-forgotten saluta- 
tion from my King. He desired me to pre- 
sent myself at Hauptville, but for once I 
took it upon myself to disobey bis commands. 
It took me two days — or rather two nights, 
for we sank ourselves during the daylight 
hours — to get all our stores on board, but 
my presence was needful every minute of the 
time. On the third morning, at four o'clock, 
the Beta and my own little flagship were at 
sea once more, bound for our original station 
off the mouth of the Thames. 

I had no time to read our papers whilst I 
was refitting, but I gathered the news after 
we got under way. The British occupied 

VoL xlvul-a 

all our ports, but otherwise we had not 
suffered at all, since we have excellent rail- 
way communications with Europe. Prices 
had altered little, and our industries continued 
as before. There was talk of a British in- 
vasion, but this I knew to be absolute non- 
sense, for the British must have learned by 
this time that it would be sheer murder to 
send transports full of soldiers to sea in the 
face of submarines. When they have a 
tunnel they can use their fine expeditionary 
force upon the Continent, but until then it 
might just as well not exist so far as Europe 
is concerned. My own country, therefore, 
was in good case and had nothing to fear. 
Great Britain, however, was already feeling 
my grip upon her throat. As in normal 
times four-fifths of her food is imported, 
prices were rising by leaps and bounds. The 
supplies in the country were beginning to 
show signs of depletion, while little was 
coming in to replace it. The insurances at 
Lloyd's had risen to a figure which made the 
price of the food prohibitive to the mass of 
the people by the time it had reached the 
market. The loaf, which under ordinary 
circumstances stood at fivepence, was already 
at one and twopence. Beef was three shil- 
lings and fourpence a pound, and mutton, 
two shillings and ninepence. Everything 
else was in proportion. The Government 
had acted with energy and offered a big 
bounty for corn to be planted at once. It 
could only be reaped five months hence, 
however, and long before then, as the papers 
pointed out, half the island would be dead 
from starvation. Strong appeals had been 
made to the patriotism of the people, and 
they were assured that the interference with 
trade was temporary, and that with a little 
patience all would be well. But already 
there was a marked rise in the death-rate, 
especially among children, who suffered from 
want of milk, the cattle being slaughtered 
for food. There was serious* rioting in the 
Lanarkshire coalfields and in the Midlands, 
together with a Socialistic upheaval in the 
East of London, which had assumed the pro- 
portions of a civil war. Already there were 
responsible papers which declared that Eng- 
land was in an impossible position, and that 
an immediate peace was necessary to prevent 
one of the greatest tragedies in history. It 
was my task now to prove to them that they 
were right. 

It was May 2nd when I found myself back 
at the Maplin Sands to the north of the 
estuary of the Thames. The Beta was sent 
on to the Solent to block it and take the place 

Ulllal I I ■_' I 1 1 




of the lamented Kappa. And now I was 
throttling Britain indeed — London, South- 
ampton, the Bristol Channel, Liverpool, the 
North Channel, the Glasgow approaches, 
each was guarded by my boats. Great liners 
were, as we learned afterwards, pouring their 
supplies into Galway and the West of Ireland, 
where provisions were cheaper than has ever 
been known. Tens of thousands were em- 
barking from Britain for Ireland in order to 
save themselves from starvation. But you 
cannot transplant a whole dense population. 
The main body of the people, by the middle 
of May, were actually starving. At that 
date wheat was at a hundred, maize and 
barley at eighty. Even the most obstinate 
had begun to see that the situation could not 
possibly continue. 

In the great towns starving crowds clam- 
oured for bread before the municipal offices, 
and public officials everywhere were attacked 
and often murdered by frantic mobs, composed 
largely of desperate women who had seen 
their infants perish before their eyes. In the 
country, roots, bark, and weeds of every sort 
were used as food. In London the private 
mansions of Ministers were guarded by strong 
pickets of soldiers, while a battalion of 
Guards was camped permanently round the 
Houses of Parliament. The lives of the Prime 
Minister and of the Foreign Secretary were 
continually threatened and occasionally 
attempted. Yet the Government had entered 
upon the war with the full assent of every 
party in the State. The true culprits were 
those, be they politicians or journalists, who 
had not the foresight to understand that 
unless Britain grew her own supplies, or unless 
by means of a tunnel she had some way of 
conveying them into the island, all her mighty 
expenditure upon her army and her fleet was 
a mere waste of money so long as her antago- 
nist had a few submarines and men who could 
use them. England has often been stupid, 
but has got off scot-free. This time she was 
stupid and had to pay the price. You can't 
expect Luck to be your saviour always. 

It would be a mere repetition of what I 
have already described if I were to recount 
all our proceedings during that first ten days 
after I resumed my station. During my 
absence the ships had taken heart and had 
begun to come up again. In the first day I 
got four. After that I had to go farther 
afield, and again I picked up several in French 
waters. Once I had a narrow escape through 
one of my kingston valves getting some grit 
into it and refusing to act when I was below 
the surface. Our margin of buoyancy just 

carried us through. By the end of that week 
the Channel was clear again and both Beta 
and my own boat were down West once more. 
There we had encouraging messages from our 
Bristol consort, who in turn had heard from 
Delta at Liverpool. Our task was completely 
done. We could not prevent all food from 
passing into the* British Islands, but at least 
we had raised what did get in to a price which 
put it far beyond the means of the penniless, 
workless multitudes. In vain Government 
commandeered it all and doled it out as a 
general feeds the garrison of a fortress. The 
task was too great — the responsibility too 
horrible. Even the proud and stubborn 
English could not face it any longer. 

I remember well how the news came to me. 
I was lying at the time off Selsey Bill when I 
saw a small war-vessel coming down Channel. 
It had never been my policy to attack any 
vessel coming down. My torpedoes and even 
my shells were too precious for that. I 
could not help being attracted, however, by 
the movements of this ship, which came 
slowly zigzagging in my direction. 

II Looking for me," thought I. n What on 
earth does the foolish thing hope to do if she 
could find me?" 

I was lying awash at the time and got 
ready to go below in case she should come for 
me. But at that moment — she was about 
half a mile away — she turned her quarter, 
and there to my amazement was the red flag 
with the blue circle, our own, beloved flag, 
flying from her peak. For a moment I 
thought that this was some clever dodge of 
the enemy to tempt me within range. I 
snatched up my glasses and called on Vornal. 
Then we both recognized the vessel. It was 
the Juno, the only one left intact of our own 
cruisers. What could she be doing flying 
the flag in the enemy's waters? Then I 
understood it, and turning to Vornal, we 
threw ourselves into each other's arms. It 
could only mean an armistice — or peace ! 

And it was peace. We learned the glad 
news when we had risen alongside the Juno, 
and the ringing cheers which greeted us had 
at last died away. Our orders were to report 
ourselves at once at Blankenberg. Then she 
passed on down Channel to collect the others* 
We returned to port upon the surface, steam- 
ing through the whole British fleet as we 
passed up the North Sea. The crews clus- 
tered thick along the sides of the vessels to 
watch us. I can see now their sullen, angry 
faces. Many shook their fists and cursed us 
as we went by. It was not that we had 
damaged them — I will do them the justice 

by V_ 



•-1 1 1 1 ti 1 1 1 ■_• 1 1 1 





to say that the English, as the old Boer War 
has proved, bear no resentment against a 
brave enemy — but that they thought us 
cowardly to attack merchant ships and avoid 
the warships. It is like the Arabs who think 
that a flank attack is a mean, unmanly 
device. War is not a big game, my English 
friends. It is a desperate business to gain 
the upper hand, and one must use one's brain 
in order to find the weak spot of one's enemy. 
It is not fair to blame me if I have found 
yours. It was my duty. Perhaps those 
officers and sailors who scowled at the little 
lota that May morning have by this time done 
me justice when the first bitterness of 
undeserved defeat was past. 

Let others describe my entrance into 
Blankenberg ; the mad enthusiasm of the 
crowds, and the magnificent public reception 
of each successive boat as it arrived. Surely 
the men deserved the grant made them by 
the State which has enabled each of them to 
be independent for life. As a feat of endu- 
rance, that long residence in such a state of 
mental tension in cramped quarters, breathing 
an unnatural atmosphere, will long remain as 
a record. The country may well be proud of 
such sailors. 

The terms of peace were not made onerous, 
for we were in no condition to make Great 
Britain our permanent enemy. We knew 
well that we had won the war by circumstances 
which would never be allowed to occur again, 
and that in a few years the Island Power 
would be as strong as ever — stronger, perhaps 
— for the lesson that she had learned. It 
would be madness to provoke such an 
antagonist. A mutual salute of flags was 
arranged, the Colonial boundary was adjusted 
by arbitration, and we claimed no indemnity 
beyond an undertaking on the part of Britain 
that she would pay any damages which an 
International Court might award to France 
or to the United States for injury received 
through the operations of our submarines. 
So ended the war ! 

Of course, England will not be caught nap- 
ping in such a fashion again ! Her foolish 
blindness is partly explained by her delusion 
that her enemy would not torpedo merchant 
vessels. Common sense should have told her 
that her enemy will play the game that suits 
them best — that they will not inquire what 
they may do, but they will do it first and talk 
about it afterwards. The opinion of the 
whole world now is that if a blockade were 
proclaimed one may do what one can with 
those who try to break it, and that it was as 
reasonable to prevent food from reaching 

by LiOOglC 

England in war time as it is for a besieger to 
prevent the victualling of a beleaguered 

I cannot end this account better than by 
quoting the first few paragraphs of a leader in 
the Times, which appeared shortly after the 
declaration of peace. It may be taken to 
epitomize the saner public opinion of England 
upon the meaning and lessons of the episode. 

" In all this miserable business/' said the writer, 
' ' which has cost us the loss of a considerable portion 
of our merchant fleet, and more than fifty thousand 
civilian lives, there is just one consolation to be found. 
It lies in the fact that our temporary conqueror is a 
Power which is not strong enough to reap the fruits of 
her victory. Had we endured this humiliation at the 
hands of any of the first-class Powers it would certainly 
have entailed the loss of all our Crown Colonies and 
tropical possessions, besides the payment of a huge 
indemnity. We were absolutely at the feet of our 
conqueror, and had no possible alternative but to submit 
to her terms, however onerous. Norland has had the 
good sense to understand that she must not abuse her 
temporary advantage, and has been generous in her 
dealings. In the grip of any other Power we should 
have ceased to exist as an Empire. 

' ' Even now we are not out of^the wood. Someone 
may maliciously pick a quarrel with us before we get 
our house in order, and use the easy weapon which has 
been demonstrated. It is to meet such a contingency 
that the Government has rushed enormous stores of food 
at the public expense into the country. In a very few 
months the new harvest will have appeared. On the 
whole we can face the immediate future without undue 
depression, though there remain some causes for anxiety. 
These will no doubt be energetically handled by this 
new and efficient Government, which has taken the 
place of those discredited politicians who led us into a 
war without having foreseen how helpless we were 
against an obvious form of attack. 

"Already the lines of our reconstruction are 
evident. The first and most important is that our 
Party men realize that there is something more vital 
than their academic disputes about Free Trade or 
Protection, and that all theory must give way to the 
fact that a country is in an artificial and dangerous 
condition if she does not produce within her own 
borders sufficient food to at least keep life in her 
population. Whether this should be brought about by 
a tax upon foreign foodstuffs, or by a bounty upon home 
products, or by a combination of the two, is now under 
discussion. But all Parties are combined upon the 
principle, and, though it will undoubtedly entail either a 
rise in prices or a deterioration in quality in the food 
of the working-classes, they will at least be insured 
against so terrible a visitation as that which is fresh in 
our memories. At any rate, we have got past the stage 
of argument. It must be so. The increased prosperity 
of the farming interest, and, as we will hope, the 
cessati >n of agricultural emigration, will be benefits 
to be counted against the obvious disadvantages. 

"The second lesson is the immediate construction 
of not one but two double-lined railways under the 
Channel. We stand in a white sheet over the matter, 
since the project has always been discouraged in 
these columns, but we are prepared to admit that 
had such railway communication been combined 
with adequate arrangements for forwarding supplies 
from Marseilles, we should have avoided our recent 




surrender. We still insist that we cannot trust 
entirely to a tunnel, since our enemy might have allies 
in the Mediterranean ; but in a single contest with any 
Power of the North of Europe it would certainly be of 
inestimable benefit. There may be dangers attendant 
upon the existence of a tunnel, but it must now be 

admitted that they are trivial compared to those which 
come from its absence. As to the building of large 
fleets of merchant submarines for the carriage of food, 
that is a new departure which will be an additional 
insurance against the danger which has left so dark a 
page in the history of our country." 


Proof* of this striking piece of fiction were submitted to a number of 
naval experts, who were invited to state their views on the points raised in 
the sto ry. As a result we are able to give the opinions of several well- 
known admirals, as well as a number of writers recognized as authorities 
on naval subjects, with notes by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle* 


WE have done something to meet the dangers to 
our food supplies by arming some of our 
merchantmen, but we shall never be really secure 
until we have installed granaries in the country. 

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's story will bring this 
important question well to the front. 

Mr. FRANK T. BULLEN. the well-known writer 
of sea stories. 
You ask me if this could come true. I should 
say certainly yes — not only could it, but it is eminently 


This story contains a very interesting but, as most 
would say, fantastic account of an imaginary war 
which, however improbable the result may appear, 
is deserving of close examination. 

, I have never wavered in my opinion that a sufficient 
land force and provision for maintaining a supply of 
food in war are absolutely necessary, and that, if these 
requirements are not provided, our existence as a 
nation remains at stake. Even Lord Haldane, when 
Secretary of State for War, stated that ** All the 
foreigner had got to do was to cut off our food supply." 
Our position was rightly compared, by the late Sir 
John Colomb in Parliament, to that of ** An un- 
victualled ocean citadel." In writing to the Press I 
have ever claimed the absolute importance of food 
supply, and I have repeatedly suggested one of the 
three following courses : — 

(i.) The establishment of granaries to maintain 
always a three months' supply of grain. 

(2.) The encouragement of farmers always to keep 
their harvest in rick for one year. 

(3.) To induce at least double the present area of 

wheat cultivation by a tax on foreign supplies. 

Failing provision of food for our people, we continue 

to run a deadly risk of ceasing to exist as an Empire 

and the loss of all our Colonies. 


Having read with much interest Sir A. Conan 
Doyle's story, I am compelled to say that I think it 
most improbable, and more like one of Jules Verne's 
stories than any other author I know — that a sub- 
marine could keep the sea alone for that length of time 
without replenishing the oil fuel and other necessaries 
which are usually carried in a depot ship, whose presence 
would make these depredations impossible. Another 
point is that if we were engaged in a war with one of 

by VjiGOglC 

the Eastern Powers, the Thames would not be used 
for receiving supplies. 

Ships from the west would probably use Milford 
Haven, a fortified port with narrow entrance, strong 
tides, and dangerous rocks at the entrance which would 
make submarine work more difficult ; and ships from 
the south would probably use Plymouth. As to 
keeping the railroad open through France and a tunnel, 
in order to feed the country, this would probably 
involve France in war. I have no doubt a tunnel 
could be more easily destroyed than the number of 
food -ships described in this story. 

Submarines have no doubt been much improved 
in recent years, and their radius of action much greater 
than formerly, as was proved in the recent manoeuvres, 
but I am afraid they are not yet capable of the 
wonderful performances described in this article.* 

* [The story deals with the submarine of the inv 
mediate future. — A. CD.] 


Sir A. Conan Doyle's clever story of the exploits ot 
a few submarines in starving the British Isles into 
surrender may prove to be a useful argument in favour 
of a Channel Tunnel and of Tariff Reform, as the British 
public will not recognize the extreme improbability of 
the technicalities with which he deals. 

I do not myself think that any civilized nation will 
torpedo unarmed and defenceless merchant ships.* I 
think the danger will be farther afield, and that it will 
arise from our short--sighted policy of failing to main- 
tain enough cruisers — or anything like enough — to 
protect our great trade joutes. 

The food question is undoubtedly at the heart of 
the matter ; and anything that can rouse public opinion 
to deal with it before war comes upon us, either by 
Tariff Reform, Channel Tunnel, or Government storage 
of foods tuffs, must be all to the good. 

♦[With all deference, I think that we must deal 
with what is possible, not with what we hope or 
think.— A. CD.] 

I agree with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle that the develop- 
ment of the submarine has modified the aspects of 
naval warfare, and, though I do not think there will 
be opportunity or possibility of carrying out such 
operations as* he describes with large ones inside the 
estuary of the Thames, I conceive there will be nothing 
to prevent their doing so at the entrances to the 
Channel and the Irish Sea, which will provide a menace 
to our food supply which has not hitherto existed, and 




which, so far, there seems to be no means of preventing. 
I do not think that much, if any, damage can be done 
by a twelve-pounder — a ship has only to proceed at full 
speed to make the use of one by a submarine in chase 
impossible. Their only effective weapon is the 

Much greater numbers of submarines will be required 
to effect even a part of the destruction indicated. Big 
ships do not sink quickly. I do not think that terri- 
torial waters will be violated, or neutral vessels sunk. 
Such will be absolutely prohibited, and will only recoil 
on the heads of the perpetrators. No nation would 
permit it, and the officer who did it would be shot. 

Although the losses may be greater, I do not think 
they will be sufficient to stop the food supply. Sub- 
marines are effective only in daylight. The menace 
of the submarine affects the commerce of all nations ; 
the antidote to it is the prohibition of capture at sea, 
except within the area of blockade.* 

*[lt is only to us that the commerce means life 
or death.— A. CD.] 

Mr. FRED. T. JANE, Editor of " Fighting Ships/' 
etc., inventor of the Naval War Game. 

The situation outlined by Sir A. Conan Doyle is 
more or less technically impossible at the present time. 
There is, however, every reason to believe that in a very 
few years (say four) submarines capable of performances 
such as he contemplates will exist. On the other hand, 
equal or greater developments in air-craft and wireless 
are also to be expected, and I have taken this into 
account in indicating how I think that the British 
Admiralty would meet the situation outlined in his 
dramatic story. 

A disavowal of International Law by any Power 
is always possible, but " every bane has its antidote," 
and those who hit below the belt may expect to find 
their blows returned in kind. An outlaw has no 
rights, and personally, were I a British officer concerned 
and Captain Sirius and his crew fell into my hands, 
I should have no hesitation whatever in hanging them 
all without trial, pour encourager Us auites I To save 
millions of Britishers from starvation anything likely 
to achieve that end would be justifiable. 41 

I am of opinion that the Admiralty, so soon as it 
heard that an inoffensive British merchant ship and 
many of its crew had been sunk without warning, 
would issue orders somewhat as follows : — 

"All incoming merchant ships to be stopped by 
wireless and ordered to collect at a certain rendezvous, 
where all available light cruisers, torpedo craft, sub- 
marines, and aircraft will meet and convoy them — 
aircraft scouting ahead. 

" On locating a hostile submarine an aircraft will 
inform convoy by wireless, so that its course can be 
diverted. The aircraft is to follow the enemy and 
endeavour to drag out his periscopes with grapnels, 
standing by to drop bombs should the submarine come 
to the surface. 

" Should any of the convoy be torpedoed, immediate 
search for submarines is to be made in the vicinity — 
light craft using grapnels with mines attached. 

" No quarter to be given, and should any of the enemy 
be captured alive they are to be hanged immediately 
as pirates. This is to apply to any Norlander, whether 
engaged in piracy or not. 

" N.B. — This last paragraph to be communicated 
immediately to the Press, which is to be requested to 
emphasize it with heavy type and to repeat it in every 
edition published. The enemy is bound to try to obtain 
information from British newspapers, and constantly 
reading this is bound to tell on his morale. 

" It is obvious that the enemy will not willingly 

Digitized by dOOgle 

waste torpedoes or ammunition in attacking outward- 
bound ships, so these will sail as usual, but in groups 
of three instead of singly. It is hkely that small ships 
only will be stopped for information purposes. So far 
as possible, therefore, small detachments of troops will 
be put on board each such ship, with orders to lie hid 
and open fire without warning on anyone on the deck 
of any submarine pirate coming up and ordering the 
ship to heave to. As the submarine is practically cer- 
tain to come close alongside it will also be easy to pick 
off any further members of the crew who come on deck, 
and in most cases it should be possible for one of the 
three ships to run down the pirate in the confusion. 

" All available trawlers, yachts, tugs, and motor- 
boats are to patrol the estuaries of trade ports, towing 
grapnels. This also applies to British bays and har- 
bours which might be used as temporary bases by the 

"-As the enemy will presumably lie by at night on the 
surface, the various units will probably attempt com- 
munication by wireless. Consequently all British 
wireless inside the area of operations is forbidden except 
in case of most extreme urgency, and no British sub- 
marine is to use wireless in any circumstances whatever. 
All destroyers and light cruisers are to listen and sweep 
in circles towards the spots any wireless messages 
appear to proceed from — impossible to-day ; but fairly 
certain to be quite as possible as the lota three or four 
years hence. Any submarine located with wireless 
mast up is to be sunk immediately by gunfire — 
inquiries afterwards. Airships to be on similar duty. 
Destroyers are generally to sweep for submarines on the 
surface at night — observing the general motto, ' Sink 
first — inquire afterwards/ 

" The enemy probably has some secret base on his 
own shores. This must be located as quickly as 
possible. Since the enemy is piratical, the best means 
to achieve this end is the merciless destruction of every 
Norland building within range of our blockading 
force, along the entire coastline. In the event of the 
base being discovered by this means (a big fire and 
explosion), destroyers and light cruisers will approach 
the base each night after dark and use any means 
to destroy the hostile submarines which sooner or later 
will come there to replenish stores, etc. 

" In the whole of these defensive operations it is 
to be remembered that the enemy has adopted piratical 
tactics and that Terror must be met by Terror. The 
destroyers of starving and defenceless British millions 
must be regarded as vermin and treated as such by the 
defenders of the Empire. Every latitude is allowed to all 
commanding officers — and no questions will be allowed 
as to the treatment and execution of Norlanders, no 
matter how severe. Those who disregard International 
Law must be taught that even Anarchy is a game at 
which two can play." 

Roughly, I think that this is, somehow, how the case 
would be met by the British Admiralty. A strong 
Government would, of course, also clap any pro- 
Norlanders into prison or execute them offhand on the 
principle of " desperate diseases require desperate 
remedies. 1 ' It would also probably render it a capital 
offence to raise the price of foodstuff and trust to its 
own measures to keep up supplies. 

But with things and fads and Party politics as they 
are, it is difficult to conceive of any Government being 
ready instantly to adopt the only safe course. And so, 
though I am convinced that the situation pictured by 
Sir A. Conan Doyle could easily be met and defeated 
were the right course tahen, I am also firmly of opinion 
that the pseudo-humanitarianism of the present day, 
coupled with the Party-political spirit, would prevent 
the Admiralty from pxerciskig 7. frzz hand. 




Consequently the only safe defence against an attack 
in the near future such as depicted lies in the establish- 
ment of national granaries or Channel Tunnels. 

What Sir A. Conan Doyle suggests as a possibility 
for the submarines of to-morrow is a possibility for 
the " tramps " of a certain Power to accomplish to-day 
— and perhaps a more difficult problem still. 

With national granaries, etc., a Captain Sirius might 
do his worst and none' of us bother much, if at all. 
There is not the least need to emulate Joseph in Egypt. 
A law whereby all foodstuff remained in bond from 
a period beginning with one day and ending with six 
months would easily meet the situation, and cost far 
less than Channel Tunnels or hypothetical submarine 

♦[You have to catch them first. — A. CD.] 
t [Tunnels should cost nothing, but bring 
revenue. — A. CD.] 


I have read Sir A. Conan Doyle's brochure with inte- 
rest and amusement. 

The story is very ingeniously worked up, and, 
although I cannot believe that the whole import trade 
of Great Britain could be destroyed by so small a force, 
it is quite likely that a few submarines* commanded 
by daring men, might do a lot of damage before they 
were wiped out. 

The writer assumes that our own submarines were 
doing nothing all the time.* 

The moral of the story is, of course, that we should 
have vast stores of grain in this country, in which 
opinion I cordially concur. 

The question of a Channel Tunnel is another thing 
about which there is considerable diversity of opinion. 
Having already expressed mine in the Times, I can only 
repeat what I then said — that, as u God made us an 
island, by all means let us remain so." 

*[l don't see how a submarine can fight a sub" 
marine. — A. C D. ] 


Sir A. Conan Doyle's stcry, in my opinion, will be 
of great value in vividly bringing to the minds of 
those who read it the paramount importance of cur 
focd supplies in lime cf war. You ask me if 1 con- 
sider the danger as described in the story to be a 
real one. I think it is, but I also think that the 
submarines had phenomenal luck ; secondly, one 
must realize that in sinking neutral ships cut of 
hand the submarines were acting piratically, accord- 
ing to international law. This would certainly have 
brought many first-class Powers into direct conflict 
with our enemy, undeterred by the fear cf engaging 
in operations against a powerful belligerent. 

As regards meeting the danger, I believe the great 
majority of experts are of the opinion that, at 
present, air-craft are practically the only way of 
combating the submarine. 

I am very glad that this question of food supplies 
is being ventilated, for it is a vital question for the 
peoples of Great Britain. 

Mr. DOUGLAS OWEN, writer and lecturer on 
naval subjects. 
Four-fifths of our daily bread and a large proportion 
of our other food is sea-borne. A small band, myself 
one of the number, have for years been calling atten- 
tion to the potential danger of the fact. Over and over 
again, at public meetings and in the Press, have we 
urged that a scheme should be prepared in peace for 

by V_ 


the adequate supply of bread to the people on the out- 
break of war. The danger was very real a decade a 
two ago, when our naval predominance was greater 
than it is to-day, and when the potentialities of the 
submarine were comparatively small. In the interval, 
on the one hand, our naval predominance has dimin- 
ished ; on the other, the submarine has evolved into 
a wide-range weapon of the most deadly possibilities. 
Till now, all efforts to arouse the public to the danger 
of a food-shortage on the outbreak of war, and to the 
paramount necessity for providing against it, have 
fallen dead. Sir Conan Doyle's story is likely to 
effect results for which we have striven in vain. 

By some it may be thought that for a popular writer 
to employ his talents in the creation of general alarm 
is to make ill use of them. If so, I think they will, 
on reflection, agree with those who hold, on the con- 
trary, that a far-seeing citizen who places before his 
slumbering countrymen a graphic and awakening 
picture of a danger hanging over them is rendering 
them the highest service. But the author has painted 
his picture, this terrible picture, from outside. To 
have painted it from within — painjted it depicting the 
country's markets swept bare of food owing to a panic 
rush on the part of the well-to-do, determined at all 
costs to provision themselves against the unknown 
possibilities of attack on our supplies ; painted it to 
show an alarmed and hungry people's growing and 
clamorous demand for bread ; painted it to show the < 
pressure thus created on a distracted Government — 
would have made it still more terrible. 

The safeguarding of our sea-borne supplies must 
needs be entrusted to the Navy, and the resourceful- 
ness of our naval men is great ; but none the less must 
we ashore, at all costs, be prepared for the dire conse- 
quence of short supplies. If Sir Conan Doyle's story 
should at any rate awake us to the urgent need for 
such preparation he will have placed the nation under 
lasting obligation. 


The story is like all Sir Arthur Conan Dcyle's 
writings *, full cf go, and impressive. For us it is 
probably well we should be alarmists. The sub- 
marines are described as doirg what no doubt with 
very good fortune they might do, and that is the 
view taken. 

With regard to staiving England out, it must be 
remembered that all our western ccasts are open to 
the ccean, where the < pace to land at is very extensive, 
and, as the open sea is less favourable to submarines 
than the Channel waters, home routes could be 

•[I think Captain Sirius fairly provided against 
the latter contention. — A. CD.] 

Mr. ARNOLD WHITE, Author of " The Navy and 
Its Story/' etc. 
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle has placed his finger on the 
neuralgic nerve-centre of the British Empire — i.e. f the 
precarious arrival of our food -supply since super- 
Dreadnoughts were superseded by super-submarines. 
The little Powers being friendly to England, the danger, 
when it comes, will probably come from a Great Power 
with oversea trade of its own to guard. By mining 
the Narrow Seas on both sides, submarine attack and 
defence will probably be transferred to deep water. 
There is no reason to doubt that our Admiralty is fully 
alive to the change in our position in respect to convoy 
and to submarine aggression on the trade routes of 
both Britain and her foe. But Sir Arthur's article 
gives furiously to think, and is a national service. 


Queer w r irst - Nignt 


Illustrated by Bert Tkomas. 

The following article contains the views of some of the leading American 
dramatic critics on the most memorable incidents they can recall. We hope 
to follow it with another in which well-known English critics will describe 

their most interesting experiences. 

R. W.E. MTANN,the dramatic 
critic of the Baltimore News, 
selects the following as 
being the most amusing and 
curious of his first-night 

Ui The Birth of Venus/ "he 
says, " was the name of a play from the 
French acted for the first time on any stage 
at Albaugh's Lyceum Theatre in Baltimore on 
February 12^1,1895. With a party I had a box, 
and the audience was large and even brilliant, 
for Edward J. Henley, an admirable actor, 
and a brother of the noted poet, W. E. Henley, 
was at the head of the cast, supported by 
persons of reputation. It was hinted through 
the newspapers that the piece was * daring/ 
and we found out later that the intrepidity 
of the author was shown in the turn of the 
plot, which concerned a birth-mark on a young 
woman's knee. She was the Venus of the 
story. She had sat to an artist, and he had 
reproduced the birth-mark in his painting. 
It seems also* that she was married ; hence 
the husband would be curious to know how 
the artist became aware of the birth-mark. 

" On this night of the premiere there was 
a good deal of anxiety on account of this 
rather risky theme, and also some hopefulness. 
Mr. Henley was sure it would make a sensation. 
Intensely nervous naturally, he was more 
so than ever, and, hearing this, I went back 
to see him. The musicians were already in 
their places ; the theatre was crowded, the 
ascent of the curtain was near at hand. 
Mr. Henley, dressed for his part, was standing 
at the top of the stairway leading to dressing- 
rooms beneath the stage,and all about were the 
stage hands, the characters that were to begin 
the scene, and some men in evening clothes. 
" It was too late to speak to Mr. Henley, 
so I returned to my box and waited expec- 

by V_ 



tantly to see the curtain go up immediately. 
But it did not go up ; the musicians had 
ceased to play and were gazing at it patiently ; 
the audience sat in silence, wondering at 
the delay. The delay was so great that I 
again went back by the rear of the boxes to 
the stage. And now the greatest confusion 
and dismay reigned, for Mr. Henley had 
unaccountably disappeared. 

" He had disappeared ! A moment ago he 
was with the throng and ready ; now he was 
nowhere to be found. Search high and low 
was instituted, and anxious faces were to be 
seen on all sides. There were all sorts of 
surmises. Had he taken fright and left the 
uncertain enterprise to its fate ? 

" Suddenly he reappeared, coming up with 
disordered dress and disturbed countenance 
by the little stairway from the regions under 
the stage where were situated a number of 
dressing-rooms. The explanation was simple ; 
from the dressing-rooms there was a route all 
the way under the auditorium to the front of 
the house, and in a hurry he had followed it 
to communicate with the box-office. Usually 
a small gas-jet cast an illumination upon the 
boarded pathway, but it had become extin- 
guished, and Mr. Henley, pursuing his gloomy 
journey alone, had lost his way. 

" His experience was certainly terrifying. 
About him were the great pipes from the 
furnace, boilers and other mysterious engines, 
and little pathways led in various unknown 
directions. Knowing that the time for the 
curtain had passed and that there must be 
alarm, he shouted vigorously, awaking the 
echoes of the dismal place. Finally his voice 
was heard, and an attache of the house, who 
also was pursuing his way through the locality 
and knew it thoroughly, heard his voice and 
rescued him. 

" It was too late for me to return to my 
Original from 



box ; up went the curtain, and I decided to 
remain where I was until the close of the first 
act. As I moved towards the prompter's 
desk I noticed for the second time a little girl 
of about thirteen, dark and slender, and 
extremely pretty, sitting on the rung of a 
ladder that led up into the ' flies.' She was 
crying softly, and some people stood about 
her in sympathy. I leaned over and asked 
the child what was the matter. 

" ' I have lost Dick/ she said, with a sob. 
' But he will come back — I know he will come 
back ! ' 

" Who was Dick ? One of the women 
explained that the name of the little girl was 
Jane, and that on that afternoon, while the 
window was up, the weather being rather 
warm for the season, and while Jane was 
feeding and caressing Dick, her mocking-bird, 
with the door of the cage open, the bird had 
suddenly darted through the door, flown to 
the window, and disappeared. 

" Jane continued to weep and to declare 
that Dick would come back, and after an 
expression of sympathy I went on down to 
the proscenium entrance, where I could see 
the stage. 

" The play was moving very nicely. I 
could see from this point the people in the 
boxes on the opposite side, and they were 
evidently pleased. Rapidly the pungent 
dialogue passed, and gratifying laughter 
followed. The actors were telling the story 
that was to introduce the large painting of 
Venus rising from the foam of the sea — the 
crucial part of the plot. 

" Suddenly behind me, in a child's voice, I 
heard the cry, * There's Dick ! He has come 

" I looked in the direction of the cry and 
saw little Jane with her rapturous gaze fixed 
upward, whither other eyes were turned. A 
bird of some kind was slowly moving from 
one side of the stage to the other far up in the 
1 flies.' Evidently it was a bat — some newly- 
awakened bat that had made its home for the 
winter in a high corner of the theatre and had 
been roused from its hibernated sleep by the 
warmth, the lights, and the noise. 

" Backwards and forwards it passed, in a 
slow, waving flight, and presently, descending 
a little, it crossed above the ' apron ' and 
passed out into the auditorium. Here, 
gracefully, with a wide, sweeping motion, 
now rising high, now going down, it crossed 
and recrossed, and described wide circles, 
evidently to the alarm of the women in the 

"In a minute or two, however, the bat 

by LiOOgle 

made another encircling turn, and again 
crossed the footlights and rose upward to its 
old place in the ' flies,' where it finally 

" Of the remainder of the performance I 
have little recollection except that the play 
was listened to faithfully, and the actors, with 
polite consideration, were recalled. 

" I thought no more of the bat ; but five 
years later, as they say solemnly in the melo- 
dramas, I was sitting in my room at the 
newspaper office one radiant and warm June 
afternoon, with the sun at the window, 
thinking of the country, and, as Richard Le 
Gallienne says, of green dingles and bramble 
coverts and bright little chapels of the wild 
rose : — 

Beautiful glooms, soft dusks in the noonday fire — 
Wild wood privacies, closets of lone desire, 
Chamber from chamber parted with waving arras 
of leaves — 

when two persons suddenly stood in the 

" One was a short old lady with grey hair 
and countenance frosty but kindly, and the 
other a tall and beautiful young woman, who, 
smiling and advancing, said simply : — 

u< Iara Jane.' 

" For a moment I did not recall her, and 
then suddenly I saw the slim, dark, prettily- 
formed little girl of the night of ' The Birth 
of Venus.' Jane, I may mention, was not 
her real name ; it was another that in course 
of time became quite well known. 

" I rose and she gave me her hand, and, 
laughing a good deal, we talked about the 
bat and how it had helped to ruin the first 
night of the play. And so we chatted for a 
while, and finally Jane said : — 

" * You must come and see me. I am now 
in summer vaudeville, and am playing at the 

Park,' and she mentioned a popular 

suburban resort. 

" And thereupon she and the old lady, who 
was her mother — not the conventional mother 
of the actress, but one who stood actually in 
that relation — told me rapidly and in great 
detail of Jane's success— of how she had 
appeared in various theatres and parks and 
sang and danced and gave imitations, and 
was quite wonderful altogether. There was 
nothing for it but that I should promise to 
come and see it all — and, of course, if I liked 
it, write just a few words of my impressions. 

" So, with this understanding, we parted, 
and that night I made my way to the crowded 
and brilliant Park. I had a front seat, near the 
little stage, under the trees and the stars, and 
with the audience, keenly alive, all about me. 



" And pretty soon, after various acts, on 
came Jane l in her becoming pink costume^ 
and looking very beautiful, and gave one or 
two songs in a rather weak but very sweet 
voice, and executed some graceful dances, 
particularly a Spanish one with castanets. 
And finally, for the last encore, she gave 
her imitations of Sarah Bernhardt, Anna 
Held, and Mrs. Fiske, as well as I recollect — 
and, I must confess, not the least bit like 
the originals. However, the audience knew no 
difference, and they passed triumphant. 
Then, seizing my opportunity, I stole away. 

11 As I walked down the long board-walk 
passageway, lined with oaks, elms, and poplars, 
and lighted with Chinese lanterns, to the gate 
and the cars, I thought of the evil omens on 
the first night of f The Birth of Venus/ and 
of how they had foreshadowed disaster to 
the amusing, well-written, well-acted play. 
The nightmare experience of Mr. Henley was 
a presage of misfortune, so likewise the 
untimely emergence from his winter slumbers 
of the black bat." 

Mr, Channing Pollock has been writing 
dramatic criticism nearly twenty years. 
During that time he has attended about six 
thousand performances, of which number 
half were first performances and seventeen 
performances of plays from his own pen. 

Of humorous incidents lur Ikls seen 
hundreds- The 
funniest occurred 
at the first per- 
formance of " The 
Nazarene" in 
Chicago, when the 
Christian maiden 
was dropped 
among the lions, 
and the lions tried 
to break out 
through the other 
side of their cage. 
But Mr. Pollock's 
" queerest " first 
night was not a 
first night in a 
theatre, or in 
America, nor was 
it a first night 
attended in a pro- 
fessional capacity. 

** It was in San 
Salvador/' says 
Mr. Pollock, "in 
1894- The quaint 
capital of this 

Vol. fclviiL— 4. 

anachronistic republic had been without 
amusement for some time, A month or so 
before the first night to which I refer, we 
residents of the city wire delighted to hear 
that we were to be visited by a circus. Work 
on the < tent J was begun in the plaza. The 
1 tent ' had corrugated iron sides and a canvas 
top. Later on, the troupe arrived at La 
Liber tad. An accident in landing injured 
two of the principal performers. The opening 
was postponed until their recovery. 

" Some weeks later the circus began its 
season. The haut monde of San Salvador, 
most of it coffee-coloured , attended the open- 
ing. The box next that in which we were 
seated was occupied by President Carlos 
Ezeta, Other boxes held a hundred or more 
officers of the army. Soldiers were sprinkled 
about the * bleachers .' 






" The circus was grotesque. We were 
smiling at a riding act, whose principal was 
suspended by a rope from a revolving spar, 
when a man in the uniform of a sergeant 
entered the President's box and handed him 
a bit of paper, Ezeta rose, hesitated, and 
said something to the gentlemen in attend- 
ance. Then they rose in turn, and quietly 
the party left the box. As they filed past us 
my father, Alexander L, Pollock, 
who was United States Consul at 
San Salvador, called my attention to 
the fact that every man held a 
revolver. The little automatic of 
present-day use had not been invented 


then, A 41 -calibre Colt glistened in the 
hand of the President. 

tl Half an hour later began an exodus of 
the soldiery. There was no public announce- 
ment, no trumpet call, no filing out of an 
orderly body of troopers. Little brown men 
came into the f tent/ made their way about 
quickly and silently, whispered to the uniform 
wearers, and one by one^ two by two, all the 
officers and soldiers left the show* I was very 
young, and curiosity mastered me. I, too, 
rose and started out. At the door I was 
confronted by half-a-dozen officers , and gently 
but firmly informed that I must remain in 
the * tent.' 

" The performance continued to its end. 
The hour was eleven. And then the acrobats 
who had opened the show r came back and 
repeated their turn* The second act followed. 
Slowly it dawned upon us that the manage- 
ment had been ordered to go on with the 
circus until further notice — to keep the only 
people in town who might have guessed what 


had happened, and to prevent their spreading 
the news until its spreading could do no 

M The air surcharged with excitement, the 
performance continued, From outside, in the 
plaza f came the sound of commands , the 
rattle of galloping bodies of cavalry, the tramp 
of feet. Inside, before unseeing eyes, the 
unhappy acrobats, and clowns, and equestrian* 

repeated their 
little 'stunts 1 
time and time 
again. No one 
paid any atten- 
tion. There was 
no appl ause. 
The silence was 
broken only by 
half - hearted 
cries from the 
ring, excited 
whispers from 
seat to seat, the 
marching of 
armed men in 
the plaza. 

il Finally, at 
two in the 
morning, in the 
middle of a jug- 
gling act, the 
ended. We were 
released- On 
the way home 
we passed hun- 
dreds of soldiers. The town was policed 
to the limit of its resources. Every corner 
sentry-box held half-a-dozen armed men. 
There was a guard about the Casa Blanca, 
and another around the red-brick residence 
of the President* And through the streets 
marched the squads of soldiers that* within an 
hour, were to begin the work of conscription. 
11 Santa Ana had fallen, Vice-President 
Ezeta had been surprised in the theatre there, 
and had barely escaped to take command, 
outside the city, of what men could be sent 
him from San Salvador, We had witnessed 
the beginning of the revolution that was to 
result in the unseating of Carlos Ezeta, in 
the flight of Antonio Ezeta to San Francisco, 
and incidentally in the death of my father, 
w r ho had sat beside me at that first-night per- 
formance which lasted more than six hours." 

Mr. Elmer K, Rupp, dramatic critic of the 
Piltsburg Press, recalls several first-night 
incidents, most of them of an amusing 

Original from 



rharacter. Six or seven years ago ha was 
nvited by a professional friend to visit a 
icighbouring town to witness a semi-pro- 
essionalj semi-amateur performance that he 
lad been chosen to direct, and which was to 
>e put on for charitable purposes. It was 
me of those popular war dramas, and the 
ocal military company was included in the 
:ast to make up the necessary number. 

" The house was crowded/ 5 writes Mr. 
iupp, " and, as was usual with houses in the 
mailer towns in those days, not too well 
jrovided with exits* The play was going 
brward apparently without a hitch, although 
ny friend was storming as only a professional 
vho has amateurs to deal with could storm* 
md pointing out mistakes in language more 
brcible than polite. Tiring of being back 
)f the scenes, I went to the front of the 
loose for the second act, which my friend 
lad assured me would be well worth 
rie wing, 

11 1 had just reached my seat when, by 
tome mishap , the footlights, which were gas- 
ets, came in contact with the tapestry rope 
;hat ran along the front of the stage. In an 
nstant it was ablaze , and some fool in the 
iudience jumped to his feet and got ready to 
ush to the aisle. That was a signal for the 
>tart of a stampede. But 
before it could gather its 
:ull force, two or three men 
sitting in the mid rile of the 
house joined their voices in 
the cry of * Sit down/ and 
just then the fat German 
comedian came to the front 
Df the stage from the 

wings 5 with a little tin 
bucket of water. It couldn't 
lave held more than a pint, 
ind this he dumped on the 
ilaze. Then he made an ex- 
cruciatingly funny exit- My 
oriend, who was playing a 
negro part, entered from the 
wings/ spat on the flame, 
md thereby started a laugh 
which ended all chance of 
a panic. The audience 
bowled, and ere they had 
recovered their equanimity 
the stage crew with a couple 
of buckets of water had put 
out the fire. It was a narrow 
escape from a great horror, 
and it was due entirely to 
the quick wit of the young 
fellow who was playing the 

German comedian and the equally quick wit 
of my friend that there was not a record of 
lives lost and horrible scenes described in 
the papers of the following day," 

Mr. Burns Mantle, dramatic critic of the 
New York Evening Mail and Munsey's 
Magaziw, harks back twelve or fourteen years 
for the funniest incident during his career as 
a recorder of plays* It was in a Western 
theatre 3 and the attraction was Lincoln J. 
Carter's "The Tornado," Mr. Carter, it 
may be mentioned, was at that time famous 
for his sensational scenic effects. In 
the words of the Press agent, they were 
u colossal." 

" As I recall it," explained Mr. Mantle, " the 
heroine had escaped with her child, had 
mounted a more or less fractious horse down 
stage 3 and started up a run- way representing 
a tortuous mountain road. Immediately she 
disappeared, and a change of scene revealed a 
deep chasm spanned by a bridge. On one 
side the villain and his friends, urged on by 
the pattering hoof-beats of an approaching 
horse, were hard at work knocking down the 
supports of the bridge, which presently 
crushed to the depths below. On the 
opposite side the heroine's friends were 


■™" " ""Wfi^WWCHIGAN 



shouting wildly for her to turn back ; the 
bridge was gone. But on she came, the hoof- 
beats growing momentarily more distinct. 

"Suddenly the horse appeared at the edge 
of the ravine, hesitated, then gathered itself 
together, rather awkwardly, it seemed, in the 
half-light, preparatory to making the leap. 
The warning shouts of the terror-stricken 
friends were redoubled. Despite them the 
animal bounded into the air, got half-way 
across the chasm, and stuck, its mechanical 
legs working furiously backwards and forwards 

as it pawed the atmosphere, the steel wires 
that held it suspended quivering like taut 

" The audience gasped, then broke into 
loud laughter at the sight of the modern 
Briinnhilde swinging between heaven and 
earth on the back of a mechanical charger. 
The curtain was hastily lowered, and the 
manager came forward to explain that, owing 
to the hurried preparations, the mechanism 
had not worked properly. But if the audience 
would remain patiently in its seats and strive 

to control its 
mirth the leap 
for life would 
be repeated. 

" Again the 
curtain rose on 
the shouting 
crowds and 
again the horse 
was heard com- 
ing up the road. 
A second time 
it made the leap 
and a second 
time it stuck in 
mid - air t with 
the four feet 
waving back 
and forth in a 
ludicrous effort 
to complete the 
jump. ' Get a 
automobile 1 , 
lady; get a 
shouted a man 
in the gallery, 

w Just as the 
curtain was 
being lowered 
the wicked 
person who had 
destroyed the 
bridge, evi- 
dently com- 
pletely mollified 
by the heroine's 
stepped for- 
ward, grabbed 
horse by its 
and calmly 
into the enemy's 

the performing 
unresisting tail, 



by Google 

hauled it back 

territory. The audience by this 
time was in an uproar, and no 
further attempt was made to 
complete the sensation/' 

Original from 

'By- EC Bentley 


Ilkisfaaied by Sfanl&r ®aVi&. 

This is another adventure of Philip Trent, the central figure of Mr. Bentley's recent 
novel, "Trent's Last Case/' which is already one of the classics of detective fiction. 
Trent is an artist, still young ; he sometimes turns to journalism at the request of his 
friend, a famous editor, who has discovered in him a peculiar talent for newspaper- 
detective work. He gels on well with everybody, and his lively, generous, quaintly- 
humorous personality has had much to do with the immense popularity of the 
novel in which he was introduced to the world. 

ELL, that's my sister/' said 
Mrs. Lancey, in a low voice. 
" What do you think of her, 
now you've spoken to her ? " 
Philip Trent, newly ar- 
rived from England, stood 
by his hostess within the 
loggia of an Italian villa looking out upon a 
prospect of such loveliness as has enchanted 
and enslaved the Northern mind from age to 
age. Before the villa lay a long paved terrace, 
and by the balustrade of it a woman stood 
looking out over the lake and conversing 
with a tall, grey-haired man. 

"Ten minutes is rather a short acquaint- 
ance/' Trent replied. " Besides, I was attend- 
ing rather more to her companion. Mynheer 
Scheffer is the first Dutchman I have met on 
social terms. One thing about Lady Bosworth 
is clear to me, though. She is the most 
beautiful thing in sight, which is saying a 
good deal." 

Mrs. Lancey laughed. 

" But I want you to take a personal interest 
in her, Philip ; it means nothing, I know, when 
you talk like that. I care a great deal about 
Isabel ; she is far more to me than any other 
woman. That's rather rare between sisters, 

Copyright, 1914, 

I believe. And it makes me wretched to know 
that there's something wrong with her." 

" With her health, do you mean ? One 
wouldn't think so." 

" Yes, but I fear it is that." 

"Is it possible?" said Trent. " Why, 
Edith, the woman has the complexion of a 
child and the step of a racehorse and eyes 
like jewels. She looks like Atalanta in blue 

" Did Atalanta marry an Egyptian 
mummy ? " inquired Mrs. Lancey. 

" It is true," said Trent, thoughtfully, 
" that Sir Peregrine looks rather as if he had 
been dug up somewhere. But I think he 
owes much of his professional success to that. 
People like a great doctor to look more or 
less unhealthy." 

" Perhaps they do ; but I don't think the 
doctor's wife enjoys it very much. Isabel 
is always happiest when away from him — if 
he were here now she would be quite different 
from what you see. You know, Philip, 
their marriage hasn't been a success — I 
always knew it wouldn't be." 

Trent shrugged his shoulders. 

" Let us drop the subject, Edith. Tell me 
why you want me to know about Lady 

b y e. c. "-flff| VERS | T y 0F MICHIGAN 



Bos worth having something the matteT with 
her. I'm not a physician." 

M No ; but there's something very puzzling 
about it j as you will see ; and you are clever 
at getting at the truth about things other 
people don't understand. Now, I'll tell you 
no more. I only want you to observe Bella 
particularly at dinner this evening, and tell 
me afterwards what you think. You'll be 
sitting opposite to her, between me and 
Agatha Stone. Now go and 
talk to her and the Dutchman." 

* £ Scheffer's appearand 
terests me," remarked Trent. 
" He has a face curiously liki± 
Frederick the Great's,* and yet 
there's a difference — he doesn't 
look quite as if his soul were 
lost for ever and ever/' 

" Well, go and 
ask him about it," 
suggested Mrs. 

When the party 
of seven sat down 
to dinner that 
evening, Lady 
Bos worth had 
just descended 
from her room, 
Trent perceived 
no change in her ; she 
talked enthusiastically 
of the loveliness of 
the Italian evening, 
and joined in a con- 
versation that was 
general and lively. It 
was only after some 
ten minutes that she 
fell silent, and that a 
new look came over 
her face. 

Little by little all 
animation departed 
from it. Her eyes grew 
heavy and dull, her 
red lips were parted in 
a foolish smile, and to 
the high, fresh tint of 
her cheek there succeeded 

All charm, all personal force had departed, 
It needed an effort to recall her quaint, viva- 
cious talk of an hour ago, now that she sat 
looking vaguely at the table before her, and 
uttering occasionally a blank monosyllable 
in reply to the discourse that Mr. Scheffer 

poured into her ear. It was not, Trent told 
himself, that anything abnormal was done. 
It was the staring fact that Lady Bos worth 
was not herself, but someone wholly of another 
kind, that opened a new and unknown spring 
of revulsion in the recesses of his 

An hour later Mrs, Lance y carried 
Trent off to a garden-seat facing the 




a disagreeable 

" Well ? " she said, quietly, 

<[ It's very strange and rather ghastly/* 
he answered J nursing his knee. " But if you 
hadn't told me it puzzled you, I should have 
thought it was easy to find an explanation." 

" Drugs, you mean ? " He nodded. " Of 
course everybody must think so. George 
does, I kmw. li's horrible ! " declared Mrs, 




Lancey, with a thump on the arm of the 
seat, u Agatha Stone began hinting at it 
after the first few days. Gossiping cat ! 
She loathes Isabel, and she'll spread it round 
everywhere that my sister is a drug-fiend. 
Philip, I asked her point 
blank if she was taking any- 
thing that could account for 
it. She was much offended 
at that ; told me I had 

known her long enough 
to know she never had 
done and never would do 
such a thing. And though 
Isabel has her faults, she's 
absolutely truthful." 

Trent looked on the 
ground. " Yes ; but you 

may have heard " 

" Oh, 1 know ! They say that kind of 
habit makes people lie and deceive who never 
did before. But you see, she is so completely 
herself, except just at this time. I simply 
couldn't make up my mind to disbelieve her. 
And f besides, if Bella is peculiar about any- 
thin gj it's clean, whole so me , hygienic living. 
She has every sort of carbolicky idea. She never 
uses scent or powder or any kind of before- 
and-after stuff, never puts anything on her 
hair ; she is washing herself from morning 
till night, but she always uses ordinary yellow 
soap. She never touches anything alcoholic, 
or teaj or coffee* You wouldn't think she had 

that kind of fad to look at her and her clothes ; 
but she has ; and I can't think of anything 
in the world she would despise more than 
dosing herself with things/' 
" How long has it been going on ? " 
" This is the seventh evening. I entreated 
her to see a doctor ; but she hates the idea of 
being doctored. She says it's sure to pass off 
and that it doesn't make any difference to 
her general health* George, who has always 
been devoted to her ; only talks to her 
now with an effort. Randolph Stone 
is just the same ; and two days before 
you arrived the II ling worths and Captain 
Burrows both went earlier than they had 
intended — I'm certain, because this 
change in Isabel was spoiling their 
visit lor them," 

" She seems to get on remarkably well 
with Scheffer," remarked Trent. 

" I know — it's extraordinary, but he 
seems more struck with her than ever/' 
" Well, he is ; but in a lizard-hearted 
way of his own. He and I were talking 
just now after you left the dining-room. 
He spoke of Lady Bos worth in a queer, 
semi-scientific sort of way, saying she 
was very interesting to a medical man 
like himself. You didn't tell me he 
was one/' 

" I didn't know, GeoTge calls him an 
anthropologist, and disagrees with him 
about the races of Farther India* It's 
the one thing George does know some- 
thing about, having lived there twelve 
years governing the poor things. They 
took to each other at once when they met last 
year, and when I asked him to stay here he 
was quite delighted. He only begged to be 
allowed to bring his cockatoo, as it could not 
live without him," 

" Strange pet for a man," Trent observed. 
" He was showing off its paces to me this 
afternoon. Well, it seems he's greatly inter- 
ested in these attacks of hers. He has seen 
nothing quite like them. But he is con- 
vinced the thing is due to what he calls a toxic 
agent of some sort. As to what, or how, or 
why, he is absolutely at a loss," 

"Mr. Scheffer really is a wonderful person/' 
the lady said. " He's lived for years among 
the most appalling savages in Dutch New 
Guinea, doing scientific work for his Govern- 
ment, and according to George they treat 
him like a sort of god. He's most attractive 
and quite kind really, I think, but there's 
something about him that makes me afraid 
of him," 
" Whatisit?' ir| 9 malfronn 




" I think it is the frosty look in his eyes," 
replied Mrs, Lancey, drawing her shoulders 
together in a shiver. 

" Perhaps that is the feeling about him in 
Dutch New Guinea/' said Trent. " Did you 
tell me, Edith, that your sister began to be 
like this the very first evening she came here ? " 

" Yes. And it had never happened before, 
she declares." 

" She came out from England with the 
Stones, didn't she ? " 

" Only the last part of the journey. They 
got on the train at Lucerne." 

Trent looked back into the drawing-room 
at the wistful face of Mrs. Stone, who was 
playing piquet with her host. She was slight 
and pretty, with large, appealing eyes that 
never lost their melancholy, though she was 
always smiling. 

" You say she loathes Lady Bosworth," he 
said. -"Why?" 

" Well, I suppose it's mainly Bella's own 
fault," confessed Mrs. Lancey, with a grimace. 
" You may as well know, Philip — you'll soon 
find out, anyhow — the truth is she will flirt 
with any man that she doesn't actively dis- 
like. She's so brimful of life she can't hold 
herself in — or she won't, rather ; she says 
^.there's no harm in it, and she doesn't care if 
there is. Several times she has practised on 
Randolph, and, although he's a perfectly safe 
old donkey if there ever was one, Agatha 
can't bear the sight of her." 

" She seems quite friendly with her," 
Trent observed. 

Mrs. Lancey produced through her delicate 
nostrils a sound that expressed a scorn for 
which there were no words. 

" Well, what do you make of it, Philip ? " 
his hostess asked, at length. " Myself, I 
simply don't know what to think. These 
queer fits of hers frighten me horribly. There's 
one dreadful idea, you see, that keeps occurring 
to me. Could it, perhaps, be " — Mrs. Lancey 
lowered her already low tone — " the beginning 
of insanity ? " 

He spoke reassuringly. " Oh, I shouldn't 
cherish that fancy. There are other things 
much more likely and much less terrible. 
Look here, Edith, will you try to arrange 
certain things for to-morrow, without asking 
me why ? And don't let anybody know I 
asked you to do it — not even George. Until 
later on, at least. Will you ? " 

" How exciting ! " Mrs. Lancey breathed. 
" Yes, of course, mystery-man. What do you 
want me to do ? " 

" Do you think you could manage things 
to-morrow so that you and I and Lady 

Digitized by dOOglC 

Bosworth could go out in the motor-boat on the 
lake for an hour or two in the evening, getting 
back in time to change for dinner — just the 
three of us and the engineer ? " 

She pondered. " Then the three of us could 
run down in the boat to San Marinette — it's 
a lovely little place — and be back before 
seven. In this weather it's really the best 
time of day for the lake." 

" That would do admirably, if you could 
work it. And one thing more — if we do go 
as you suggest, I want you privately to tell 
your engineer to do just what I ask him to 
do — no matter what it is." 

Mrs. Lancey worked it without difficulty. 
At five o'clock the two ladies and Trent, with a 
powerful young man of superb manners at the 
steering-wheel, were gliding swiftly south- 
ward, mile after mile, down the long lake. 
They landed at the most picturesque, and 
perhaps the most dilapidated and dirtiest, 
of all the lakeside villages, where, in the tiny 
square above the landing-place, a score of 
dusky infants were treading the measures 
and chanting the words of one of the imme- 
morial games of childhood. While Mrs. 
Lancey and her sister watched them in delight 
Trent spoke rapidly to the young engineer, 
whose gleaming eyes and teeth flashed 

Soon afterward they strolled through San 
Marmette, and up the mountain road to a 
little church, half a mile away, where a curious 
fresco could be seen. 

It was close on half-past six when they 
returned, to be met by Giuseppe, voluble in 
excitement and apology. It appeared that 
while he had been fraternizing with the keeper 
of the inn by the landing-place certain 
triste individui had, unseen by anyone, been 
tampering maliciously with the engine of the 
boat, and had poured handfuls of dust into 
the delicate mechanism. Mrs. Lancey, who 
had received a private nod from Tfent, 
reproved him bitterly for leaving the boat, 
and asked how long it would take to get 
the engine working again. 

Giuseppe, overwhelmed with contrition, 
feared that it might be a matter of hours. 
Questioned, he said that the public steamer 
had arrived and departed twenty minutes 
since ; the next one, the last of the day, wes 
not due until after nine. Their excellencies 
could at least count on getting home by that, 
if the engine was not ready sooner. Ques- 
tioned farther, he said that one could telephone . 
from the post-office, and that food creditably 
cooked was to \k had at the trcltoria. 




Lady Bosworth was delighted. She declared 
that she would not have missed this occasion 
for anything. She had come to approve 
highly of Trent, who had made himself 
excellent company, and she saw her way to 
being quite admirable, for she was in dancing 

It was a more than cheerful dinner that 
they had under a canopy of vine-leaves on a 
tiny terrace overlooking the lake. Twilight 
came on unnoticed, and soon afterwards 
appeared the passenger - boat, by which, 
Giuseppe advising it, they decided to return. 
It was as they sought for places on the 
crowded upper deck that Mrs. Lancey put her 
hand on Trent's arm. " There hasn't been 
a sign of it all the evening/' she whispered. 
" What does that mean ? " 

11 It means," murmured Trent, " that Lady 
Bosworth was prevented, by the merest 
accident, from dining at home in the 
ordinary way." 

It was not until the following afternoon 
that Trent found an opportunity of being 
alone with his hostess in the garden. 

" She is perfectly delighted at having 
escaped it last night," said Mrs. Lancey. " She 
says she knew it would pass off, but she hasn't 
the least notion how she was cured. Nor 
have I." 

" She isn't," replied Trent. " Last night 
was only a beginning, and we can't get her 
unexpectedly stranded for the evening every 
day. The next move can be made now, if 
you consent to it. Lady Bosworth will be 
out until this evening, I believe ? " 

" She's gone shopping in the town. What 
do you want to do ? " 

" I want you to take me' up to her room, 
and there I want you to look very carefully 
through everything in the place — in every 
corner of every box and drawer and bag and 
cupboard — and show me anything you find 
that might " 

" I should hate to do that ! " Mrs. Lancey 
interrupted him, her face flushing. 

" You would hate much more to see vour 
sister again this evening as she was every 
evening before last night. Look here, Edith ; 
the position is simple enough. Every day, 
about seven, Lady Bosworth goes into that 
room in her normal state to dress for dinner. 
Every day she comes out of it apparently as 
she went in, but turns queer a little later. 
Now is there any other place than that room 
where the mischief could happen ? " 

Mrs. Lancey frowned dubiously. For 
a few moments she stood carefully boring a 

Vol. xhriiL-5. 

hole in the gravel with one heel. Them 
" Come along," she said, and led the way 
toward the house. 

" Unless we take the floor up," said Mrs. 
Lancey, seating herself emphatically on the 
bed in her sister's room twenty minutes later, 
" there's nowhere else to look. I've taken 
everything out and pried into every hole and 
corner. There isn't a single lockable thing 
that is locked. There isn't a bottle or phial 
or pill-box of any sort to be found. So much 
for your suspicions. What interests you 
about that nail-polishing pad ? You must 
have seen one before, surely." 

" This ornamental design on hammered 
silver is very beautiful and original," replied 
Trent, abstractedly. " I have never seen 
anything quite like it." 

" The same design is on the whole of the 
toilet-set," Mrs. Lancey observed, tartly, 
" and it shows to least advantage on the 
manicure-things. You are talking rubbish ; 
and yet," she added, slowly, " you are looking 
rather pleased with yourself." 

Trent turned round slowly. " I'm only 
thinking. Whose are the rooms on each side 
of this, Edith ? " 

" This side, the Stones' ; that side, Ms* 

" Then I will go for a walk all alone and 
think some more. Good-bye." 

Trent was not in the house when, three 
hours later, a rousing tumult broke out on 
the upper floor. Those below in the loggia 
heard first a piercing scream, then a clatter 
of feet on parquet flooring, then more sounds 
of feet, excited voices, other screams of harsh, 
inhuman quality, and a lively scuiiiing and 
banging. Mr. Scheffer, with a volley of 
guttural words of which it was easy to gather 
the general sense, headed the rush of the 
company upstairs. 

" Gisko ! Gisko ! " he shouted, at the head 
of the stairway. There was another ear- 
splitting screech, and the cockatoo came 
scuttling and fluttering out of Lady Bos- 
worth's room, pursued by three vociferating 
women servants. The bird's yellow crest 
was erect and quivering with agitation ; it 
screeched furious defiance again as it leapt 
upon its master's outstretched wrist. 

" Silence, devil ! " exclaimed Mr. Scheffer, 
seizing it by the head and shaking it violently. 
" I know not how to apologize, Lancey," he 
declared. " The accursed bird has somehow 
slipped from his chain away. I left him in 
my room secure just before we had tea/' 




" Never mind, never mind ! " replied his 
host, who seemed rather pleased than other- 
wise with this small diversion. " I don't 
suppose he's done any harm beyond frighten- 
ing the women. Anything wrong, Edith ? " 
he asked, as they approached the open door 
of the bedroom, to which the ladies had 
already hurried. Lady Bosworth's maid was 
telling a voluble story. 

" When she came in just now to get the 
room ready for Isabel to dress/' Mrs. Lancey 
summarized, " she suddenly heard a voice 
say something, and saw the bird perched on 
top of the mirror, staring at her. It gave 
her such a shock that she dropped the water- 
can and fled ; then the two other girls came 
and helped her, trying to drive it out. They 
hadn't the sense to send for Mr. Scheffer." 

" Apologize, carrion ! " commanded Gisko's 
master. The cockatoo uttered a string of 
Dutch words in a subdued croak. " He says 
he asks one thousand pardons, and he will 
sin no more/* Mr. Scheffer translated. 
" Miserable brigand ! Traitor ! " 

Lady Bosworth hurried out of her room. 

" I won't hear the poor thing scolded like 
that," she protested. " How was he to 
know my maid would be frightened ? He 
looks so wretched ! Take him away, Mr. 
Scheffer, and cheer him up." 

It was half an hour later that Mrs. Lancey 
came to her husband in his dressing-room. 

" I must say Bella was very decent about 
Scheffer 's horrid bird," she began. " Do you 
know what the little fiend had done ? " 

" No, my dear. I thought he had confined 
himself to frightening the maid outof her skin." 

" Not at all. He had been having the time 
of his life. Bella saw at once that he had 
been up to mischief, but she pretended there 
was nothing. Now it turns out he has bitten 
the buttons off two pairs of gloves, chewed 
up a lot of hair-pins, and spoiled her pretty 
little manicure set. He's torn the lining out 
of the case, the silver handles are covered 
with beak-marks, two or three of the things 
he seems to have hidden somewhere, and the 
polishing-pad is a ruin." 

" It's too bad ! " declared Mr. Lancey, 
bending over a shoe. 

" I believe you're laughing, George," said 
his wife, coldly. 

He began to do so audibly. " You must 
admit it's funny to think of the bird going 
solemnly through a programme of mischief 
like that. I wish I could have seen the little 
beggar at it. Well, we shall have to get Bella 
a new nail-outfit. I'm glad she held her 
tongue about it just now." 

" Why ? " 

" Because, my dear, we don't ask people 
to the house to make them feel uncomfortable 
— especially foreigners." 

" Bella wasn't thinking of your ideal of 
hospitality. She held her tongue because she's 
taken a fancy to Scheffer. But, George, how 
do you suppose the little pest got in ? The 
window was shut, and Hignett declares the 
door was too, when she went to the room." 

" Then I expect Hignett deceives herself. 
Anyway, what does it matter ? What I am 
anxious about is your sister's little peculiarity. 
As I've told you, I don't at all like the look 
of her having been quite normal yesterday 
evening, the one evening when she was away 
from the house by accident. I really am feeling 
miserably depressed, Edith. What I'm dread- 
ing now is a repetition of the usual ghastly 
performance to-night." 

But neither that night, nor any night 
after, was that performance repeated. Lady 
Bosworth, free now of all apprehension, 
renewed and redoubled the life of the little 
company. And the lips of Trent were 
obstinately sealed. 

Three weeks later Trent was shown into 
the consulting-room of Sir Peregrine Bos- 
worth. The famous physician was a tall, 
stooping man of exaggerated gauntness, 
narrow-jawed, and high-nosed. He was 
courteous of manner and smiled readily ; but 
his face was set in unhappy lines. 

" Will you sit down, Mr. Trent ? " said Sir 
Peregrine. " You wrote that you wished to 
see me upon a private matter concerning 
myself. I am at a loss to imagine what it 
can be, but, knpwing your name, I had no 
hesitation in making an appointment." 

Trent inclined his head. " I am obliged to 
you, Sir Peregrine. The matter is really 
important, and also quite private— so private 
that no person whatever knows the material 
facts besides myself. I won't waste words. 
I have lately been staying with the Lanceys, 
whom you know, in Italy. Lady Bosworth 
was also a guest there. For some days before 
my arrival she had suffered each evening from 
a curious attack of lassitude and vacancy of 
mind. I don't know what it was. Perhaps 
you do." 

Sir Peregrine, immovably listening, smiled 
grimly. " The description of symptoms is a 
little vague. I have heard nothing of this, I 
may say, from my wife." 

" It always came on at a certain time of 
the day, and only then. That time was a 
few minutes after eight, at the beginning of 





by Google 

Original from 



dinner. The attack passed off gradually after 
two hours or so." 

The physician laid his clenched hand on the 
table between them. " You are not a medical 
man, Mr. Trent, I believe. What concern 
have you with all this ? " His voice was 
coldly hostile now. 

" Lots," answered Trent, briefly. Then 
he added, as Sir Peregrine got to his feet with 
a burning eye, " I know nothing of medicine, 
but I cured Lady Bosworth." 

The other sat down again suddenly. His 
open hands fell upon the table and his dark 

face became very pale. " You " he began 

with difficulty. 

" I and no other, Sir Peregrine. And in a 
curiously simple way. I found out what was 
causing the trouble, and without her know- 
ledge I removed it. It was — oh, the devil ! " 
Trent exclaimed in a lower tone. For Sir 
Peregrine Bosworth, with a brow gone sud- 
denly white and clammy, had first attempted 
to rise and then sunk forward with his head 
on the table. 

Trent, who had seen such things before, 
hurried to him, pulled his chair from the 
table, and pressed his head down to his knees. 
Within a minute the stricken man was leaning 
back in his chair. He inspired deeply from a 
small bottle he had taken from his pocket. 

" You have been overworking, perhaps," 
Trent said. " Something is wrong. I think 
I had better not " 

Sir Peregrine had pulled himself together. 
" I know very well what is wrong with me, 
sir," he interrupted, brusquely. "It is my 
business to know. That will not happen 
again. I wish to hear what you have to say, 
before you leave this house." 

" Very well." Trent took a tone of colour- 
less precision. " I was asked by Lady 
Bosworth's sister, Mrs. Lancey, to help in 
trying to trace the source of the disorder 
which attacked her every evening. I need 
not describe the signs of it, and I will not 
trouble you with an account of how I reasoned 
on the matter. But I found out that Lady 
Bosworth was, on these occasions, under the 
influence of a drug, which had the effect of 
lowering her vitality and clogging her brain, 
without producing stupefaction or sleep ; 
and I was led to the conclusion that she was 
administering this drug to herself without 
knowing it." 

He paused, and felt in his waistcoat pocket. 
" When Mrs. Lancey and I were making a 
search for something of the kind in her room, 
my attention was caught by the fine workman- 
ship of a manicure-set on the dressing-table. 

Digitized byvji 

I took up the little round box meant to contain 
nail-polishing paste, admiring its shape and 
decoration, and on looking inside it found it 
half -full of paste. But I have often watched 
the process of beautifying finger-nails, and it 
seemed to me that the stuff was of a deeper 
red than the usual pink confection ; and I saw 
next that the polishing-pad bi the set, though 
well-worn, had never been 'used with paste, 
which leaves a sort of dark incrustation on 
the pad. Yet it was evident that the paste 
in the little box had been used. It is useful 
sometimes, you see, to have a mind that 
notices trifles. So I jumped to the conclusion 
that the paste that was not employed as nail- 
polish was employed for some other purpose ; 
and when I reached that point I simply put 
the box in my pocket and went away with it. 
I may say that Mrs. Lancey knew nothing of 
this, or of what I did afterwards." 

" And what was that ? " Sir Peregrine 
appeared now to be following the story with 
an ironic interest. 

" Naturally, knowing nothing of such 
matters, I took it to the place that called 
itself * English Pharmacy ' in the town, and 
asked the proprietor what the stuff was. He 
looked at it, took a little on his finger, smelt 
it, and said it was undoubtedly lip-salve. 

" It was then I remembered how, when I 
saw Lady Bosworth during one of her attacks, 
her lips were brilliantly red, though all the 
colour had departed from her face. That had 
struck me as very odd, because I am a painter, 
and naturally I could not miss an abnormality 
like that. Then I remembered another thing. 
One evening, when Lady Bosworth, her sister, 
and myself were prevented from returning to 
the house for dinner, and dined at a country 
inn, there had been no signs of her trouble ; 
but I had noticed that she moistened her lips 
again and again with her tongue." 

" You are observant," remarked Sir Pere- 
grine, dispassionately, and again had recourse 
to his smelling-bottle. 

" You are good enough to say so," Trent 
replied, with a wooden face. " On thinking 
these things over, it seemed to me probable 
that Lady Bosworth was in the habit of 
putting on a little lip-salve when she dressed 
for dinner in the evening ; perhaps finding 
that her lips at that time of day tended to 
become dry, or perhaps not caring to use it in 
daylight, when its presence would be much 
more easily detected. For I had learned that 
she made some considerable parade of not 
using any kind of cosmetics or artificial aids 
to beauty ; and that, of course, accounted 
for her carrying it ivk a box meant for manicure- 






paste, which might be represented as merely 
a matter of cleanliness, and at any rate was 
not to be classed with paint and powder. It 
was not pleasant to me to have surprised this 
innocent little deception ; but it was as well 
that I did so, for I soon ascertained beyond 
doubt that the stuff had been tampered with. 

" When I left the chemist's I went and 
sat in a quiet corner of the Museum grounds. 
Tfrere I put the least touch of the salve on my 
tongue, and awaited results. In five minutes 
I had lost all power of connected thought or 
will ; I no longer felt any interest in my own 
experiment. I was conscious. I felt no dis- 
comfort, and no loss of the power of movement. 
Only my intelligence seemed to be paralyzed. 
For an hour I was looking out upon the world 
with the soul of an ox, placid and blank. 5 ' 

Trent now opened his fingers and showed 
a little round box of hammered silver, with a 
delicate ornamentation running round the 
lid. It was of about the bigness of a pill-box. 

by L^OOgle 

" It seemed best to me that this box should 
simply disappear , and in some quite natural, 
unsuspicious way. Merely to remove the salve 
would have drawn Lady Bos worth's attention 
to it and set her guessing. She did not 
suspect the stuff as yet, I was fully convinced ; 
and I thought it well that the affair of her 
seizures should remain a mystery. Your 
eyes ask why. Just because I did not want a 
painful scandal in Mrs, Lancey's family — we 
are old friends, you see. And now here 

I am with the box, and neither Lady Bos- 
worth nor any other person has the smallest 
inkling of its crazy secret but you and L" 

He stopped again and looked in Sir Pere- 
grine's eyes. They remained fixed upon him 
with the gaze of a statue. 

" It was plain f of course/' Trent continued, 

II that someone had got at the stuff imme- 
diately before she went out to Italy, or 
immediately on her arrival. The attacks 
began on the first evening there, two hours 




after reaching the house. Therefore any tam- 
pering with the salve after her arrival was prac- 
tically impossible. When I asked myself who 
should have tampered with it before Lady 
Bosworth left this house to go out to Italy, I 
was led to form a very unpleasant conjecture." 

Sir Peregrine stirred in his chair. " You had 
been told the truth — or a part of the truth — 
about our married life, I suppose ? " 

Trent inclined his head. " Three days ago 
I arrived in London, and showed a little of this 
paste to a friend of mine who is an expert 
analyst. He has sent me a report, which I 
have here." He handed an envelope across 
the table. " He was deeply interested in 
what he found, but I have not satisfied his 
curiosity. He found the salve to be evenly 
impregnated with a very slight quantity of 
a rare alkaloid body called purvisine. Infini- 
tesimal doses of it produce effects on the 
human organism which he describes, as I can 
testify, with considerable accuracy. It was 
discovered, he notes, by Henry Purvis twenty- 
five years ago ; and you will remember, Sir 
Peregrine, what I only found out by inquiry — 
that you were assistant to Purvis about that 
time in Edinburgh, where he had the Chair 
of medical jurisprudence and toxicology." 

He ceased to speak, and there was a short 
silence. Sir Peregrine gazed at the table 
before him. Once or twice he drew breath 
deeply, and at length began to speak calmly. 

11 1 shall not waste words," he said, " in 
trying to explain fully my state of mind or 
my action in this matter. But I will tell 
you enough for your imagination to do the 
rest. My feeling for my wife was an infatua- 
tion from the beginning, and is still. I was 
too old for her. I don't think now that she 
ever cared for me greatly ; but she was too 
strong-minded ever to marry a wealthy fool. 
By the time we had been married a year I 
could no longer hide from myself that she 
had an incurable weakness for philandering. 
She has surrendered herself to it with less and 
less restraint, and without any attempt to 
deceive me on the subject. If I tried to tell 
you what torture it has been to me, you 
wouldn't understand. The worst was when 
she was away from me, staying with her 
friends. At length I took the step you 
know. It was undeniably an act of baseness, 
and we will leave it at that, if you please. 
If you should ever suffer as I do, you will 
modify your judgment upon me. I knew of 
my wife's habit, discovered by you, of using 
lip-salve at her evening toilette. On the 
night before her departure I took what was 
in that box and combined it with a pre- 

paration of the drug purvisine. The infini- 
tesimal amount which would pass into the 
mouth after the application of the salve was 
calculated to produce for an hour or two 
the effects you have described, without 
otherwise doing any harm. But I knew the 
impression that would be produced upon 
normal men and women by the sight of any- 
one in such a state. I wanted to turn her 
attractiveness into repulsiveness, and I seem 
to have succeeded. I was mad when I did 
it. I have been aghast at my own action 
ever since. I am glad it has been frustrated. 
And now I should like to know what you 
intend to do." 

Trent took up the box. " If you agree, 
Sir Peregrine, I shall drop this from West- 
minster Bridge to-night. And so long as 
nothing of the sort is practised again, the 
whole affair shall be buried. Yours is a 
wretched story, and I don't suppose any of 
us would find our moral fibre improved by 
such a situation. I have no more to say." 

He rose and moved to the door. Sir 
Peregrine rose also and stood with lowered 
eyes, apparently deep in thought. 

"lam obliged to you, Mr. Trent," he said, 
formally. " I may say, too, that your account 
of your proceedings interested me deeply. 
I should like to ask a question. How did 
you contrive that the box should disappear 
without its owner seeing anything remark- 
able in its absence ? " 

" Oh, easily," Trent replied, his hand on 
the door-knob. " After experimenting on 
myself, I went back to the house before tea- 
time, when no one happened to be in. I went 
upstairs to a room where a cockatoo was kept 
— a mischievous brute — took him off his 
chain, and carried him into Lady Bosworth's 
room. There I put him on the dressing-table, 
and teased him a little with the manicure 
things to interest him in them. Then I took 
away one of the pairs of scissors, so that the 
box shouldn't be the one thing missing, and 
left him shut in there to do his worst, while 
I went out of the house again. When I went 
he was ripping out the silk lining of the case, 
and had chewed up the silver handles of the 
things pretty well. After I had gone he went 
on to destroy various other things. In the 
riot that took place when he was found the 
disappearance of the little box and scissors 
became a mere detail. Certainly Lady 
Bosworth suspected nothing. 

" I suppose," he added, thoughtfully, " that 
occasion would be the only time a cockatoo 
was of any particular use." 

And Trent went, oaf,, 


ike Fine Art of Jockeyship, 

Some Reminiscences and Personal Impressions. 

In the following article Frank Wootton, one of the finest horsemen of modern 
limes, gives his impressions on the art of jockeyship, and relates some reminiscences 
and personal experiences of race- riding. Wootton's rise to fame in the jockey 
world has been quite phenomenal in its rapidity. In 1906 he rode sixteen winners, 
in 1907 thirty-nine winners, in 1908 one hundred and twenty^nine winners, and 
in the following year headed the list of successful jockeys with a total of one 
hundred and sixty-five winning mounts. 

HAVE often been asked 
whether I consider that the 
art of race-riding deserves to 
be termed u a fine Art," 
Naturally enough, I find this 
an exceedingly difficult 
question to answer, but, at the 
same time, there is a simple, yet conclusive, 
proof ready at hand that the art of race-riding 

LT Tul Hj ' t 

is by no means easy of acquirement. What is 
this proof ? Simply that, while there are 
probably tens of thousands of stable-boys 
of one sort and another in England; 
but very few of these ever show sufficient 
ability in the saddle to justify their 
being given a mount in public, while a glance 
at the list of winning jockeys also goes to 

prove th t/Nf^FS#? ,i 5 , F!!(ife , " ,r5emen 



does not exceed more than a score or so. 
However, from whatever point of view one 
regards the art, knack, habit — call it what 
you will — of jockeyship, it seems that it is 
very frequently an hereditary art. In England, 
for example ,such cases as those of the Cannons, 
the Wattses, the Rickabys, the Halseys, and 
the Loateses clearly prove . this, while it 
would be easy to cite similar cases in other 

In regarding jockeyship as a fine art, I am 
naturally doing so in an entirely impartial 
manner, and in giving my views on the sub- 
ject for what they are worth I am basing these 
on what my experience as a jockey — and, in 
a small way, I may claim to have had quite 
a lot of experience — has led me to believe is 

I suppose the question I have been most 
often asked is the following : " Do you think 
a really top-hole jockey is born, not made ? " 
To a certain extent my own impression is 
that the first-class jockey is " made up " 
of a little bit of both. If he does not take 
to riding, and does not possess a few gifts 
from Nature which will enable him to ride, 
he would assuredly do better to make up 
his mind to ride in a bus, and not on the 
back of a horse. On the other hand, if he 
possesses a fair amount of natural aptitude 
and a genuine liking for race-riding, with 
practice and experience he should do well. 

You see, it's this way. Race-riding to-day 
is at least as scientific as it ever was, and, in 
consequence, to hold his own with the best 
of his rivals — friendly rivals, of course ; 
although, between ourselves, they are not 
always quite friendly — a jockey must possess 
more valuable qualifications than a good seat 
and good hands. The latter, I think, are 
generally more a gift of Nature than of 
practice. First and foremost he must ride 
with his head, and must also possess plenty 
of courage and dash, for, although I may be 
wrong, my own very strong belief is that 
these two exceedingly valuable qualifications, 
like patience and, in a minor degree, an 
accurate knowledge of pace, cannot be gained 
by precept, but must be born in a man. 

Looking at the art of jockeyship from a 
broad point of view, I am inclined to think 
that the two most valuable essentials are 
head and hands. The jockey who rides with 
his head and takes advantage of every chance 
that comes his way in a race, and does not 
merely ride in the " hell-for-leather " or 
" pillar-to-post " style, will inevitably win 
more races than his less brainy brother artist, 
for the simple reason that the jockey who 

rides with his head knows precisely what 
his own horse is doing, and also has a pretty 
shrewd notion of what the other horses in 
the race are doing. Naturally enough, this 
faculty is rare, but I can at least say that 
some few riders I have known have possessed 
it in quite a remarkable degree. 

By the way, when talking about the art 
of jockeyship, I am reminded that the members 
of but few professions come in for quite 
so much criticism, good, bad, and indifferent, 
as we jockeys, from arm-chair critics and 
others who seem to overlook the fact that 
it is always easy to win races from the grand 

As a matter of fact, of course, criticism of 
this sort, which is daily on the tongues of the 
hundreds of thousands of people interested 
in racing throughout the country, is not worth 
a moment's consideration, for all sorts of 
things must obviously happen in a race 
which critics on the stands cannot possibly 
appreciate. Thus, fifty yards or so from 
home a jockey's mount may appear to those 
on the stand to be simply " doddling " home. 
But suddenly something dashes up full of 
running, gets the leader sprawling, and after 
a sharp struggle, instead of winning by a 
comfortable length or so, as stand critics 
afterwards declare he ought to have done, 
the apparently easily winning horse gets 
" pipped " by a neck, and his jockey is, in 
consequence, blamed for riding a weak 

More likely than not he has done nothing 
of the kind. After all, a jockey cannot 
" come " without his horse, and if his mount 
is not of the courageous kind, and is not 
too partial to running his race out, a mistaken 
point of view may easily crop up, for of 
a sudden, in the case of faint-hearted horses, 
up goes the apparently easy winner's head, 
swish round and round goes his tail, and, 
before you can say " Jack Robinson/' what 
looked from the stands like being an easy 
win is unexpectedly turned into a vexatious 

Then, again, a jockey may frequently come 
in for a whole bunch of adverse criticism 
because, on some of his form, the horse on 
which he has ridden a losing race would 
appear to ought-to-have-been " a stone-cold 
certainty " for it. Because the horse lost 
the jockey is blamed. But why ? Horses 
are not machines ; neither, for that matter, 
men. Some horses will run pounds 




and pounds better in heavy going than when 
the going is hard — with certain horses I have 
known I might conscientiously substitute 




" stones " for u pounds " — while horses possess 
quite as many curious characteristics as 
human beings. 

As an example of this temperamental side 
of the character of the thoroughbred, I can 
think of quite a number of cases in which 
mounts I have had have suddenly ff chucked 
up the racing business " for the time bein^ 

the summer or autumn, as the case may be, 

rather than any other time of year, and that 

other horses can only show their best form on 

certain courses, left or right-handed, up-hill 

or down-hill , severe or easy, in light or heavy 

going, when ridden by a strong jockey rather 

than a mere boy, I think I am explaining fairly 

accurately exactly why, on occasions, the true 

artiste among jockeys may 

^ ^ fail to come off* 

C T***\ Another interesting point 

i ^1 in connection with the riding 

^tI Q^. of races here occurs to me, 

E* and that is that, although 

races are usually run at the 

Jk wk rate of anything from thirty - 

Jk three to thirty-six miles an 

^^P hour — you can work out 

because early on in a 
race they have been 
bumped into by another 
horse, or interfered with 
in some way or another 
which has struck them 
as not being " quite 
playing the game." As 
a result, when going 
really well they have, 
of a sudden, become 
soured, and have 
dropped out of the race 
altogether. Still, there 
you are— critics on the 
stand cannot possibly 
appreciate these things, 
these little contretemps, 
which doubtless ac- 
counts for the fact that, 
as I have said, critics on the stand are not 
by any means infallible judges of the art of 

'ITiere are, of course, a thousand and one 
other reasons which, if viewed impartially, 
account for the difference in the running of 
horses. In a short article it would obviously 
be impossible to explain these at length, but 
whan I say that some horses invariably 
11 come to hand " and show their best form 
in the spring, while others seem 

Vol, *Wiu.-ft 

JYum a Photograph bp W* A. Jfaue*. 

the calculation quite simply for yourself 
— it is quite extraordinary how wonderfully 
clearly a jockey can recognize the sea of fares 
lining the rails. Those who have only ridden 
winners w on the stands ,J will probably 
imagine that in a fast-run race a racecourse 
crowd would appear to a jockey merely as one 
big blur of faces, and yet many a time, as a 
field has thundered up the straight, I have 
been able to pick out a countenance familiar 
to me from hundreds of others. One doesn't 


to prrfcr 


realize that one is actually doing so, of course 
— but one can do it all the same. 

There is still another side of a jockey's 
life which I think is frequently misunderstood 
by the general public, and that is that the 
average jockey merely looks upon his mounts 
as so many galloping machines— in other 
words, he is generally supposed to feel no 
greater affection for one horse than another* 

in 1910, and a horse which, by Ihe way, I 
regard as one of the best I have ever ridden 
in this country. Swynford, in my opinion, 
was a real good horse, as game as a pebble, 
gifted with a brilliant turn of speed, and 
also a real good stayer. What more can any 
jockey ask from a mount than the possession 
of such qualities as these ? 

I could, too, rite the cases of many other 
horses which I have come to regard as real 
11 pals." Let me* name just a very few, 
Perola, on whom I won the Oaks in 1909, 
pave me a remarkably comfortable ride, 
Demure and Verne y, on whom I won the 
Cesarewitch in 1907 and 1910 respectively, 
were also nice horses to r :> also 1- 

Stornoway, winner of the Gimcrack Stakes 
lust year ; while I still feel genuine sympathy 
for Mr. E. Hulton's good horse, Lomond, 
on whom I shall always believe I should 

From « rhviogroph bff] FRlNK WOOTTOtf OM "LOMOND." ISpoti & 0r urmi 



This, however, is the greatest of mistakes, 
A jockey appreciates a good mount , and feels 
pride in that mount equal to that of any owner 
who has ever lived. 

For instance j I have always felt real, 
genuine affection for Swynford, the property 
Qf I/Ord Derby, on whom I won the St. Legtr 

by Google 

have ridden my first Derby winner hut for his 
4i going w ong." Still, there are just as many 
unfortunates in the four-legged as there are 
in the two-legged world— and more's the pity* 
I have often been asked whether I con- 
sider that j for a boy who can do the weight 
and possesses the necessary qualifications 

Original from 



which go to the making of a jockey, a 
jockey's life is one to be recommended. To 
this I can safely reply with an emphatic 
" Yes/ 1 tempered by a very big 7/, If he 
possesses the particular qualities I have 
mentioned in this article, */ he is prepared 
at all times to exercise self-denial, if he 
will run straight, if he will always realize 
that, however much he may think he knows, 
there is always something fresh for him to 
learn, if he is strong enough to avoid acquir- 
ing a swollen head in times of success, if 
he will study horses much in the same way 
as a barrister studies the law, ah actor or 
actress the stage, and so on and so forth, 
then I am emphatically of the opinion that 
the boy who devotes his working life — but he 
must begin early, very early — to acquiring 
the art of race-riding will never have cause 
to regret it* And he may also acquire 
more coin of the realm in this way in quite 
a short time than he probably would in 
most other professions. 

But " there is much virtue in //," 
For my own part, unless Nature suddenly 
works a miracle — that is to say, enables 
rne to reduce my weight comfortably by 
something like two stone — I am much afraid 
that my days in the saddle as far as race- 
riding is concerned are over* At the moment 
my weight is a few pounds over eleven 
stone, which fact alone accounts for my 
not being able to seriously consider riding 
again — on the racecourse — except perhaps 
now and again in those very rare races which 
will enable me to do the weight comfortably. 
Still, compensations remain to me. My 
father, in the very near future, will give up 

training in England to settle down in his 
home, Australia. When that day arrives 
I am eagerly looking forward to taking over 
the training establishment over which he 
now presides, Treadwell House, Epsom, 
with my brother Stanley as " understudy/ 5 
In the meantime , in order to get my hand 
in at the training business, I am taking 
over a dozen or so of my father's horses, 
which I shall train for their engagements 
this year. 

Shall I ride over jumps ? No* I have 
received a number of offers, and excellent 
offers at that, but, as 1 have spent practically 
the whole of my working life in riding on the 
flat, I prefer not to start on a new " job." 
- I have seen it stated, by the way, that 
my little brother Dick, who is now four 
years old, will eventually become first 
jockey to Treadwell House* This rumour, 
however, like many other rumours have 
been in the past, is entirely without founda- 
tion. As far as the present generation of 
Woottons are concerned, they have said 
good-bye to race-riding for ever. 

Still, as I have said, compensations remain 
to me, and, as there is no longer an oppor- 
tunity left for me to ride the winner of the 
Derby, I shall concentrate my best efforts 
in the endeavour to do the next best thing 
— train one. And if ever I have the oppor- 
tunity of doing so for one or other of the 
best sportsmen for whom I have ever ridden, 
my chief patrons, Lord Derby and Mr, E* 
Hulton, I have a shrewd notion that in 
your humble servant, Frank Wootton, you 
would find the proudest man in this or any 
other Continent, 


I H F . 4. tittueh. 



Illustrated ty 

BROOM sat on a kerosene- 
box on the sunny side of the 
house reading the weekly 
paper. It was Sunday morn- 
ing, a calm, sunny morning, 
after a long spell of rain. 
There was no morning church, and Granfather, 
when he took the paper outside } was careful 
to explain to his daughter-in-law that 
he wanted " to read the sermon on 
the back of it." 
Four young Thick brooms, of a 

distinctly Clydesdale 


in their Sunday clothes, and re- 
strained by maternal threats as to 

what would happen to them if they went 
out into the mud, were playing a strenuous 
game of Salvation Army on the veranda. 

Gran father Thickbroom — fortunately for 
himself at the present juncture — was somewhat 
deaf , and, notwithstanding the tramping and 
tin-banging, was enabled to read on but little 
disturbed. Mr. Thickbroom, junior, was 
" taking it out " in bed, but, in any case, like 

the immortal 
Ga 1 1 i o, he 
" cared for none 
of these thing>. ,f 
M r s. T h i - k- 
broom was op- 
posed to Sun- 
day games on 
principle, but 
seeing the 
children were 
o n I v playing 
"Army;' 'and 
the Army was a 
zationj she was 
not concerned. 
As for the 
neigh bours — 
they were used 
to it. 

Having satis- 
fied his con- 
science by the 
desperate con- 


.1. . -i f , -,, \J\\ Q I rlfl I TiQ III 

by LiGOgl< 




Author flf 
" Tht Man Fr&m Cardie's tffr&K*' 

\Varwick Reynolds. 

necessary to read through the sermon, 
Granfather gave vent to a sigh of relief , and 
turned back abstractedly through the pages 
— taking here and there a mental bite (so to 
speak) of the forbidden fruit of worldly news. 
In the midst of this doubtful occupation 
and the pandemonium raised by the marching 
11 soldiers/ 1 he gradually became conscious 
that someone was calling him by name. 
Hurriedly thrusting the paper aside, Gran- 
father rose as quickly as his stiffened limbs 
would permit and looked about him. The 
speaker being directly in front of him , leaning 

over the fence from the next yard, was, of 
course j the last object to come within the 
range of the aged man's vision ; but, after 
looking in all directions save the right one, he 
must needs eventually look in that direction 
also, where he at once discovered the round 
eyes of "Mister" Stringy Paterson regard- 
ing him and his paper with unbounded 

i( Ho, it's you, Stringy, is it ? n he cried, in 
tones of relief, when he had assured himself 
as to the visitor's identity, 

4( Yes ; it ? s me/' Mister Paterson replied, 
slowly* " Any news ? >J he added , as a kind 
of afterthought. 

" Hay ? " Granfather inquired, putting his 
hand behind his ear and looking interrogatively 
at Stringy , with his mouth open. 

" - Any news ? J I said. Any good murders 
—or anything ? " 

" I wasn't reading the news/' Granfather 
explained, coldly, " I was 
reading the sermon/' 

'* I always thought they 
printed the sermons in the 

GJLANF4THEIL SHOOK |§W HMD AND <JM1J.KL». * JT's NOTi;Tfl^j* n WfflWft <?U1*TLV/' 





back of the paper," Mister Pa terson remarked, 

" Hay ? " Granfather inquired again — not 
that he did not hear — he was merely sparring 
for time to invent a fitting answer. 

" I — thought — they — printed — the sermons 
— in the back of the paper," Stringy shouted, 
" and I saw you reading in the middle of it. 
I s'pose you was looking to see wot the devil's 
been up to ? " 

Granfather's feet were in the toils then, and 
he knew it, but like the celebrated British 
race, of which he was an unworthy sample, he 
never knew when he was beaten, and with 
superb generalship he even now contrived to 
outmanoeuvre Mister Paterson, and turned 
defeat to victory. 

" When you come to my age," he said, 
going off at a tangent, " you won't laugh at 
the devil — he's got more sense than you 
think " ; and before Mister Paterson had time 
to realize what was happening, Granfather 
had adroitly changed the subject by asking, 
" But wot are you doing up so early ? You 
gen'rally sleep in till dinner-time on Sunday. 
Our children annoying you ? " 

Stringbark Paterson was not a passionate 
man — nor one to retain animosity for long 
against anybody — hence the unwonted spec- 
tacle of Granfather Thickbroom reading a 
weekly paper on Sunday morning had been 
sufficient to drive his personal wrongs from 
his mind; but the ancient man's question 
recalled them to him. 

" It's them darned Duffies," he said, 
angrily. " I come home here Saturday night, 
and after tea put a candle in the bucket, and 
laid the bucket down by the wood-heap; and 
by the light of that candle I set to and cut up 
enough wood to last us all day Sunday, and I 
piled it up there in the shed to keep it dry — 
and this morning, when the missus got up to 
light the fire, there wasn't a blooming stick 
of it left. That's how I'm up so early. After 
cutting all that wood last night I had to git 
up and sail into it again this morning — when 
I should have been enjoying my hard-earned 
rest in bed." 

" Somebody been and shook your wood ? " 
Granfather asked, with an appalled look, for 
" wood-shaking," in the eyes of every respect- 
able Timboonite, was akin to manslaughter. 

" Shook it ? Yes ; and it's not the first 
time neither. I can't keep a log of wood in 
the yard for 'em, and if it wasn't for that 
bull-tarrier of yours, you'd be the same." 

" Hay ? " Granfather asked, thrusting his 
face as near to that of Mister Paterson as the 
fence would allow. He had missed the last 

by Google 

two sentences owing to a demonstration of 
unusual power on the part of the " Army." 

" I said if it wasn't for old Peter, your bull- 
dog, being in the yard, you wouldn't be able 
to keep any wood neither." 

Granfather shook his head and smiled. 

" It's not him," he said, quietly. 

" Not him ? " Mister Paterson echoed ; 
" then I'd like to know who it is. I'll swear 
it ain't Jerry — nobody's frightened of him." 

Jerry was the father of the young Clydes- 

" No," Mr. Thickbroom agreed ; " it ain't 

Mister Paterson was moved almost to 

" Then if it's not old Peter, and it's not 
Jerry, who is it ?" he demanded. 

" Me," said Granfather, simply, gazing 
modestly on the ground. 

" You ! " Stringy almost shouted. " You ! 
Why, wot have they got to be frightened 
of you for ? You're eighty years old. You 
can't run for sour apples. You're as deaf as 
a beetle, and if you did happen to catch 5 em 
wot could you do ? Why, them young* 
Duffies " 

" All the same," quoth Mr. Thickbroom, 
with some heat, interrupting, " it's me they'n*: 
frightened of — and that's why they never 
shake our wood." 

" Oh, well, have it your own way," 
answered Mister Paterson, in tones of resigna- 
tion ; " but still I can't make out why they 
should be frightened of you." 

Granfather would hear no more. 

" Did you never hear," he said, in low and 
thrilling tones, " wot I did to the Dobles 
when they was shaking my wood ? " 

Stringy admitted he had not, and added, 
" I never knew the Dobles shook your wood." 

" Well, they did," Mr. Thickbroom affirmed, 
nodding. " And I let 'em go up to a certain 
point ; then I stopped 'em ; and the way I 
done it' put the fear of me into all the law- 
breakers in the forest ; and from that day to 
this I've never had another log of wood shook." 

Mister Paterson was visibly impressed. " I 
never heard about it," he said. 

" No," the aged terror responded, proudly ; 
" and a good reason, too. They was that 
flambasted and bottled up that they couldn't 
abear to speak of it afterwards. The way I 
done was this. When Jerry was a boy, me 
and him was up in the forest cutting wood for 
the engine at the mill, and last thing every 
day we used to stack wot we cut, and measure 
it. Well, one morning when we got there I 
seen the tracks of cart-wheels on the ground, 

Original from 



and about a ton of our wood was gone. 
Same thing happened a few nights later, and 
kept going on till I got sick and tired of it. 
So, one night as soon as tea was over, I loaded 
up my Winchester repeater, and went back as 
fast as I could to where we'd been cutting 
that day, and climbed up into the fork of a 
big tree, where I couldn't be seen. By and 
by, after I'd been waiting a bit, I heard the 
sound of a cart coming, and then who should 
come along but old Doble and young Doble ? 
It was clear moonlight where the wood was 
stacked, and they backed the cart in and 
begun to load her up. Well, I waited until 
I made sure, and then I took aim, and let fly 
at the piece old Doble was lifting into the cart. 
The bullet knocked it clean out of his hands, 
and you never saw such a surprised man in 
your life. Him and young Doble give a yell, 
and then they stood looking at one another 
for ever so long, seemingly not knowing wot 
to make of it. Then they looked at the log, 
and seemingly couldn't make anything of 
that. And at last young Doble he gives a 
laugh like as though he didn't believe it, and 
pries up the log, and was just going to put it 
ir when I let fly again and knocked it kicking. 
Well, then you should have seen 'em — they 
didn't know which way to look. After a 
w!Je, however, they made up their minds to 
go on, and old Doble he reaches for another 
piece. I waited till he thought he was safe, 
and was just getting it in the cart, and then I 
sent it flying. At that old Doble jumped 
right in himself and grabbed the reins. 
Young Doble he stooped and picked up the 
tail-board, and was just going to throw it in 
the cart when I put a bullet through that, and 
sent it for yards. Then he give a howl and 
jumped in beside his father, and the pair of 
'em lammed into the horse something unmerci- 
ful, and went lick for smack down the hill 
through the trees* And from that day to 
this," the terror to law-breakers concluded, 
" I've had no trouble. The Duffies is the 
Dobles* cousins, and they know all about it 
—and the fear of me is better in this yard 
than forty bulldogs." 

Mister Paterson listened with tremendous 
interest to this graphic tale ; and when it was 
finished spent a minute or so in deep reflection. 
Then he remarked : — 

" Well, if you could do that out in the 
forest, wot's to hinder you from sitting up 
some night in my shed with your Winchester ? 
I'd give anything to see you and them young 
Duffies " 

" No," Granfather broke in upon him ; 
" that wouldn't do at all. Why, if I was to 

by L^OOgle 

stay out after dark, Emmer and Jerry would 
have all Timboon out with lanterns looking 
for me. No, that wouldn't do at all ; but if 
you really want to fix them young Duffies, I 
could put you up to a way of doing it." 

"Well, I do want to fix 'em," Stringy 
replied, firmly ; " and if you can tell me how, 
I'll jolly soon do it." 

" All you've gotter do," Granfather 
answered, with the unction of a school- 
teacher imparting wisdom to a backward 
pupil, " is to bore a hole in a likely log, 
stuff it full of gunpowder, and cork it up with 
a bit of clay. Leave the log where they can't 
help picking it up, and they'll do the rest." 

Stringy's gentle, round, rabbit eyes grew 
rounder than ever as the possibilities of this 
novel scheme dawned upon him. 

" But, I say," he cried presently, as a 
possible objection began to shape in his mind, 
" s'pose the chimley got blown up, how would 
it be then ? " 

" Serve 'em jolly well right ! " Mr. Thick- 
broom replied, without hesitation. " It'll 
learn 'em not to be shaking your wood." 

" Ye-es, certainly," Mister Paterson re- 
sponded, uncertainly ; " but wot I was 
thinking of was, how would I stand in a 
court of law ? " 

A shade of something akin to impatience 
passed over the patriarchal countenance of 
Granfather Thickbroom, as he scornfully 
echoed Mister Paterson's words. 

" Court of law ! Court of law ! Do you 
think them young Duffies would be sich 
ow-tray-shus fools as to summons you — when, 
to prove their case, they'd have to go into the 
dock and swear they stole your wood ? Don't 
you believe it. They may be wood-shakers 
— them young Duffies — but they ain't wot 
you might call lame under the hat — not by 
no means." 

Mister Paterson bowed submissively before 
this weight of reasoning and evident knowledge 
of the technicalities of the law. 

" Then, by Jingo," he said, with grim 
determination, " I'll do it ; only you have to 
promise me you'll never say anything about 

" I give you my word and honour," Gran- 
father responded, solemnly, " that I'll never 
breathe a word to a living soul, no matter wot 

People rise early in Timboon, and the sun 
was not yet up when Mister Paterson and 
Granfather Thickbroom met again at the 
fence. Inside their respective abodes the 
fires had been lit for sojne time, and Mrs. 






by Google 

Original from 



Paterson and Mrs. Thickbroom were busily 
preparing breakfast. 

Mister Paterson's teeth were chattering in 
his head — though not with cold. 

" Did you do it ? " Granfather inquired. 

" Yes, I did," Stringy replied, in tones of 
dejection, not to say remorse. " I bored a 
deep hole and rammed it full of blasting 
powder — and fixed it so as no one should 
know — unless they was looking for it." 

" And has the log been took ? " 

" It has," Stringy answered, tremblingly. 
" I just been to see, and I wish to goodness I 
never heard of sich a thing. I ain't had a 
wink of sleep all night thinking of wot might 
happen. How would it be if someone was 
killed ? " he asked, in a hoarse whisper. 

" Don't you fret," Granfather replied, 
jauntily ; " that's their look-out, not yours. 
I never lost any sleep — not a minute — and I 
got up this early so as to see the fun, I'm 
going to stay here and watch Duffie's house 
from the minute I see the smoke coming up 
outer the chimley, and if anyone gits their 
head blown off, it serves them jolly well right." 

Whether or not Granfather had concluded 
his remarks it is not now possible to *say ; 
but he had got thus far when he was inter- 
rupted in a manner so startling and so terrible 
that to this day Mister Paterson shudders 
whenever he recalls it to mind. 

The bottom part of the chimney attached 
to the Thickbroom mansion was composed of 
enormous bricks of unbaked clay, walled in 
with broad, upright planks of rough-hewn 
timber. At the top of these the chimney 
narrowed, and all the upper part was of wood, 
and directly at the conclusion of Mr. 
Thickbroom's pronouncement the whole of 
the lower part of this structure — impelled by 
some tremendous power within — suddenly 
burst asunder with a shock of such terrific 
and appalling nature that it rattled the 
windows and crockery in every house in 
Timboon. This was followed by a muffled 
roar like the discharge of heavy artillery fired 
in a cave close at hand. 

Simultaneously with the report the atmo- 
sphere was filled with dust and ashes, pieces 
of brick, and flying planks. And it was one 
of the latter, winging its way heavily and 
horizontally across the yard at a low altitude, 
that brought Granfather's eloquence to an 
abrupt termination. It caught him length- 
ways and violently at the back of his knees, 
mowing him down like a swath of corn. 
Mister Paterson was saved by the fence. 

Following immediately upon this surprising 
tragedy, the upper part of the chimney fell 

Vol. xlviii. — 7. 

by Google 

to earth with a loud crash. Then arose a 
series of ear-splitting screams and yells 
from the interior of the house ; but 
before the horrified Stringy could scale the 
fence to the rescue, the back door flew open, 
and Mr. Thickbroom, junior, in shirt and 
trousers, but no boots, followed closely by 
Mrs. Thickbroom and the young Thick- 
brooms, bolted out into the yard. 

The only one really hurt, however, was 
Granfather, who complained for a long 
time afterwards of pains in the back of 
his knees. But even Granfather was more 
hurt in mind than in body. For the moment 
he recovered sufficiently to be able to realize 
what had taken place, all delusions as to the 
plunderer of Mister Paterson's wood-yard fell 
from his eyes, and he regarded his son and 
heir with a kind of horror, and almost wished 
he had perished in the explosion. 

All Timboon was quickly upon the scene, 
and the first to arrive, in a half-dressed con- 
dition, ready and eager to help, were the two 
young Duffies. - 

In response to the universal inquiry as to 
what had happened, the excited neighbour- 
hood learned that Mrs. Thickbroom had 
arisen first, as her custom was, and, 
having lit the fire and put the porridge on, 
had returned to the bedroom for the purpose 
of dressing the youngest of the family. By 
that time Jerry also had bestirred himself, and 
the morning being cold had come forth and 
seated himself by the fire that he might 
finish his toilet in comfort, when the dread- 
ful thing happened. The shock of it flung him 
against the wall on the opposite side of the 
room, and but for the fact that the charge had 
gone outwards through the chimney instead 
of backwards into the room, Jerry was con- 
vinced that nothing in the world could have 
saved him from being blown to " hatoms." 

In the days of excitement which followed 
this unparalleled event the more thoughtful 
people in Timboon advanced many theories, 
all of them deeply philosophic and scientific, 
to account for what had taken place ; but the 
one which obtained most credence at the time, 
and has since passed from the world of specu- 
lation to that of positive fact, is that even- 
tually advanced by Jerry himself — namely, 
that the place was struck by a thunder-bolt 
from heaven. 

Nevertheless, Mister Paterson notes, with a 
kind of chastened satisfaction, that ever since 
the explosion his wood-heap abides in peace, 
while Jerry gets all that is necessary for the 
Thickbroom requirements from the forest, in 
broad daylight. 

Original from 

The Old Beefsteak Room 
and Thereabouts. 


Illustrated by Ralpk Cleaver. 

Henry Irving — Ellen Terry — Kate Terry — Goquelut, Pere ct Fils — 

Charles ^bVyndham. 

HEN, in 1878, Henry Irving this day in more palatial quarters farther 

established himself at the west. The old kitchen remained r and in 

Lyceum Theatre, his quick eye, the heyday of Irvmg's prosperity sent 

on hospitable intent ever alert, into the adjacent dining-room steaks juicy 

noted the possibilities of an and tender enough to maintain an ancient 

odd corner of the building, reputation. 

For nearly a century it had On a Saturday night in 1899, after the 

been the local habitation of the Beefsteak temporary withdrawal of 4< Robespierre " 

Club. The Club, founded in 1735, was dis- enthusiastically acclaimed by a crowded 

solved in 1869, and the old quarters were house, Irving, doffing his picturesque garb in 

annexed by the proprietor of the Lyceum. which he had said a temporary farewell to 

Re-established, the Beefsteak flourishes to the London public previous to his sixth 

by Google 

Original from 



triumphal tour in the United 
States, gave a supper to a few 
friends in the old Beefsteak Room. 
Ellen Terry, who in private had 
just added to her fascinations a 
pair of clouded spectacles, graced 
the table with her presence, and 
was in high spirits in spite of the 
sultry night and the long labours 
of the season. 

Among the guests was her 
sister , Mrs, Arthur Lewis, a lady 
who, under this undistinguished 
cognomen, veils the name and 
fame of Kate Terry. Old play- 
goers say that when the stage 
lost this jewel it was bereft of 
even a greater ornament than 
remained with it in the person 
of her sister Ellen, Kate Terry, 
whilst still young and passing 
fair, in the very height of her 
career, married a silk - mercer, 
forthwith retired from the stage, 
and long resisted temptation to 
return within the fascination of 
the footlights. Talking at supper 
about a visit lately paid by the 
Lyceum Company to Windsor, 

Mrs. Lewis told me she had vivid recollection 
of journeying thither on a similar errand. 
She was at the time not quite seven years 
of age. The play was " King John," with 

by ^C 



Phelps as Hubert and little Miss Kate as 
Prince Arthur, 

For the child there were two terrors 
scarcely less appalling than those that 
beset the little Prince in the room at North- 
ampton Castle when " enter Hubert and two 
attendants M bearing the hot irons designed 
to pierce his eyes. One was Phelps t the 
other the Queen of England . 

Kate had never before played with the 
great tragedian , and naturally shrank from 
the ordeal. She w f as scarcely comforted by 
the assurance given her in advance that he 
would play the part quite differently from 
anyone she had been accustomed to, and was 
advised that the only thing for her to do was 
to watch him carefully and follow his cue. 
She got along better than she expected, 
Phelps doubtless recognized her genius and 
dealt tenderly with her. But the Queen 
sitting there watching almost paralyzed her 
with fear, 

M All through the piece/' she said, M I was 
weighed down with the conviction that if 
Original from 




I made a mistake, did anything wrong, or 
failed to please the Queen, I should be 
ordered off for instant execution." 

That she did fairly well is proved by 
the fact that Kate Terry, transformed into 
a comely matron, with a bevy of fair 
daughters, long survived, testifying to her 
deathless interest in the stage by being 
present on the first night of every new piece 
at any of the principal theatres. 

Another of Irving's guests was a quietly- 
mannered man who, as far as personal 
appearance went, did not look as if he had 
any history more tragic than might fall to 
the lot of an everyday grocer or an Oxford 
Street linendraper. Yet few living men — 
perhaps only one — had stranger or more 
bitter experience than the man who for 
twelve years was in the clutches of the Khalifa. 
Mr. Neufeld — for it was he — served in the 
Nile Campaign. He fell into the hands of 
the Dervishes in 1887, and was kept a 
prisoner at Khartoum till released on the 
taking of the town by Lord Kitchener in 
1898. He spoke excellent English, though 
for twelve years he heard no other tongue 
than Soudanese. He thought he had for- 
gotten German and English, but on emerging 
upon civilization both speedily came back 
to him. 

I asked him what were the first English 
words he heard spoken in his captivity. 

"It was," he said, "the Sirdar, Lord 
Kitchener, who, coming in to see me after 
the battle of Omdurman, said, ' Well, are 
you all right ? * " 

This almost touches the sublimity of 
Stanley's greeting to Dr. Livingstone, stum- 
bling upon him in the solitude of Central 
Africa : " Dr. Livingstone, I presume ? " 
It is eminently characteristic of the phlegmatic 
Englishman that, breaking in upon the tragedy 
of twelve years' hopeless captivity, all he 
said to the victim was, " Well, are you all 
right ? " 

Mr. Neufeld spoke gratefully of an officer 
accompanying the Sirdar — his name, strange 
to say, he did not know — who after his 
deliverance lent him his horse to conduct him 
to the camp. The officer had been in the 
recent fight, was evidently worn out with 
fatigue and lack of sleep, but he insisted 
upon the rescued captive sitting on his 
horse, whilst he walked in the hot sun by 
his side. 

With a twinkle in his eye, Mr. Neufeld 
admitted that he particularly enjoyed Henry 
Irving's cuisine after his long experience of 
the Khalifa's fare. Morn, noon, and night, it 

by Google 

was ever the same — a pounded sort of maize, 
which tasted like nothing so much as sawdust 
This is the common food of people in the 
Soudan. Yet they thrive on it, turning out 
hardy workers and warriors. During his long 
captivity Mr. Neufeld only twice came into 
the presence of the Khalifa. 

Talking about Gordon, he told a story which 
upset a long-established tradition. According 
to detailed accounts reaching this country, 
Gordon received his death-wound standing 
unarmed at the top of the steps leading to 
the palace he had appropriated as residence. 
Mr. Neufeld, having long and intimate com- 
panionship with natives who were either 
present in Khartoum at the time or heard 
the story from the lips of those who were, 
told me Gordon died sword in hand. 

Irving contributed to the gaiety of the 
supper a story about Lawrence Barrett 
One night Barrett and his old friend, Edwin 
Booth, met at their club in New York. 
Barrett, after brief greeting, bustled towards 
the door with every appearance of remember- 
ing a pressing engagement. 

44 Halloa ! Where are you off to ? " Booth 

44 To a rehearsal," said Barrett. 

44 What's the play ? " 

Barrett said it was 44 Romeo and Juliet." 

44 And what part do you take ? " Booth 
asked, in sudden access of interest. 

44 There is only one part for me in the play," 
Barrett said, drawing himself up in lofty 

44 Oh, ah, yes," said Booth. 44 I know— 
the Nurse." 

The angered tragedian strode forth in 
haughty silence, and did not speak to Booth 
for two days. 

Irving was a rare combination of a man of 
genius and a man of business. In preparing 
a play for the stage he spared no money. Of 
that he was lavishly free. What was even 
more essential to success, he did not spare 
himself, taking infinite pains in respect of the 
smallest detail. He was, for fully a quarter 
of a century, rewarded with phenomenal 
success. Bram Stoker told me that from 
the opening of his management to the day 
of his death he received from a delighted 
public a sum of over two millions sterling. 
By his fourth tour in the United States he 
drew into the treasury one hundred and 
twenty-three thousand pounds. Yet, owing 
to a sudden turn in the tide of fortune, he 
died comparatively poor. 

This was largely the result of reckless 
generosity. Even the accumulation of 

Original from 



disasters that followed on his accident on the 
night of the production of " Richard II L" 
(in December , 1896) could not have affected 
the amount of saving possible had he been 
inclined to adopt the habit during the height 
of his financial prosperity. His first impulse 
ever was to give, I remember supping with 
him on another night in the still palmy days 
of the Lyceum. Seated opposite him at the 
narrow table of 
the Beefsteak 
Room, I made a 
remark about the 
beauty of an old 
Queen Anne 
chair he had for a 
moment vacated 
" Take it with 


was hi s 

swift response, 
and on leaving I 
had the greatest 
difficulty in pre- 
venting him 
having the trea- 
sure packed on 
the roof of the 
hansom cab that 
took me home. 

The year 1894 
was the high- 
water mark of 
his prosperity. 
Within its term 
he climbed the 
topmost hill of 
popularity and 
renown. He was 
undisguised I y 
proud of an ex- 
hibition of versa* 
tility in playing 
on the same night 
Co nan Doyle's 
** A Story of 
Waterloo ,? and 
Willi's "Chapter 

from the Life of Don Quixote/' a judiciously 
condensed version of a play Irving had kept 
in his desk for eighteen years. 

An ordinary man would have been satisfied 
with the creation of the part of either Don 
Quixote or the old Waterloo veteran who 
drove the powder-wagon to the relief of the 
Guards at Hugomont, whose life, having 
passed its ninetieth year, flickered out in a 
cottage room. Irving attempted, and suc- 
ceeded, in presenting these inimitably diverse 
characters in rapid succession. There was 

by Google 

no doubt on the first night which was the 
greater favourite. The brilliant gathering 
of well-known people in the stalls and boxes 
joined with pit and gallery in rounds of 
enthusiastic applause of Irving's marvellously 
minute and perfect transformation into the 
nonagenarian soldier, with his pathetic 
childishness, his glorious past, his occasional 
flashes of ancient fire, after one of which the 

lamp finally goes 
out. At the 
supper given to 
some of his 
friends on the 
stage after the 
performance I 
had an oppor- 
tunity of asking 
him which part 
was more to his 
liking. He 
seemed genu- 
inely astonished 
that any doubt 
cou d exist on 
the subject. 

" Why, Don 
Quixote!" he 
said, his face 
lighting up with 
enthusiasm a t 
mention of the 

Fro m one 
point of view he 
was unquestion- 
ably right, In 
appearance, i n 
bearing, in ges- 
ture, in voice, in 
every action, he 
realized on the 
stage the crazy 
gentleman whom 
Cervantes in- 
vented and 
None the less is "Don Quixote" impossible as 
a play, and none the more was Wills the man 
to even partially accomplish the impossible. 
After a brief run the curtain finally fell on 
" Don Quixote," Corporal Gregory Brewster, 
babbling of "the Duke," held the stage to 
the end of Irving's careen 

During his active management of the 
Criterion Theatre Charles Wyndham also 
had his private supper-room, where he and a 
bright company of guests often heard the 

Original from 




chimes at midnight. Situated some way at 
the back of the theatre, it was cunningly 
contrived in the semblance of the cabin 
of a yacht. So minute was the masterly 
production that light was admitted through 
portholes glassed in sea-green. Swinging 
lamps hung from the ceiling in case Picca- 
dilly Circus, caught in a gust of wind, should 
give a sudden lurch. For sideboard there 
were lockers such as one finds aboard a ship. 
Many a merry little supper was given here 
during the more than twenty years of Wynd- 
ham's lesseeship of the Criterion, It was 
unique among managerial possessions, 

some fifty ladies and gentlemen were invited 
to meet them — Coquelin first and supper 

Father and son were in excellent form, I 
am bound to say that if the son did not bear 
the father's name and go about under his 
wing there would not have been any crush to 
see him j or any such price paid as was forth- 
coming for this private entertainment. 
Neither pert nor fils was at all like the 
traditional Frenchman, 1 am not certain 



In later years Wyndhanv, taking up his 
residence at an hotel at Kmghtsbridge, enter- 
tained a good deal, having frequent Sunday- 
night dinners. At one of these I made the 
acquaintance of Coquelin pire . He and his 
son were fulfilling a short engagement at one 
of the London theatres, which closed more 
brilliantly than it opened. If the great French 
actor had never drawn his salary for public 
appearances during his stay in London, he 
would have made a handsome thing out of 
his visit. A fashion suddenly developed of 
inviting him and his son to private houses, 
where, in the presence of a select company 
of guests, they either recited or presented 
famous scenes from their most popular pieces. 
MM. Coquelin appeared for the last time at a 
well-known house in Stratton Street, where 

by Google 

that, meeting them loitering 
round a supper - table , one 
might not have supposed they 
werewaiters. There was 
something in the father's countenance re- 
miniscent of Johnnie Toole, though his facial 
play was much subtler* 

One item in Coquelin pire's programme 
was a narrative f supposed to be given by an 
Englishman speaking the French of Strat- 
ford-atte-Bow, of a moving tragedy in 
Japanese life. I never heard anything more 
marvellous than Coquelin 's reproduction of 
the English accent of the French tongue. 
Hearing this, and watching the inimitable 
play of his face, there were some ordinarily 
unimpressionable people who laughed till 
the tears rolled down their cheeks* 

Wyndham frequently lunched with us at 
Ashley Gardens, On the last occasion, just 
before Easter, he met the late Duke ot 

Original from 



Argyll, a great admirer of his stage triumphs. 
None at the table tho ght that this was the 
last time we should listen to the charming 
conversation of one of the most simple- 
mannered yet most capable men of his 

One time Wyndham arrived on a certain 
Tuesday, having been invited for the 
Tuesday in the following week. The 
unexpected addition was awkward, leading 
to the crowding up of a table where every 
seat had been allotted. The best, however, 
was made of the accident, and Wyndham 
seated himself in happy unconsciousness that 
unexpectedness lent fresh charm to his coim- 
pany. In the course of conversation he told 
an interesting story of how a lady well known 
in London society had earlier in the year 
invited him to dinner, promising some 
pleasant company. He arrived, as he believed, 
in due course, and was surprised to find him- 
self the sole guest. He concluded the rest 
would turn up in time. When dinner was 
announced, finding himself tete-a-tete with his 
hostess, he ventured to observe that he had 
expected to meet So-and-so. 

" Yes," said the hostess, smiling, " but that 
was last night." 

I had not intended to say anything about 
what was evidently an engagement-book 
error, but this was really too tempting. 

" My dear Wyndham," I said, across the 

table, " you would otherwise never have 

known it, but I must cap your excellent 

' story by telling you that it was next Tuesday 

you were expected to lunch here." 

Even Wyndham blushed. 

But he was not yet at the end of his 
resources. On the following Tuesday, the day 
originally appointed, he turned up again. 
It fortunately happened that Herbert Glad- 
stone, one of the expected guests, detained 
by Ministerial business, was an absentee, 
and into his empty chair Wyndham cheerily 
dropped, hungry and unabashed. 

In anticipation of one of the annual 
dinners of the Actors' Benevolent Society, 
I sent a little cheque to Wyndham, whose 
services on behalf of old comrades fallen by 
the way were through many years tireless. 
Not receiving an acknowledgment in due 
course of post, I, affecting to be concerned 
for the safety of the remittance, telegraphed 
that I should instruct my banker to stop 
payment. Within an hour this little ruse 
brought the following breathless but undated 
letter :— 

My Dear Lucy, — I must first apologize for net 
answering your letter yesterday morning. It is better 
to tell you the truth. I arrived home Friday night 
to find your magnificent gift awaiting me. It simply 
but absolutely took my breath and my senses a* ay. 
The money brought me little consolation, for I began 
to think it was a trick played upon you and myself. 
The address on the letter up in the corner was also 
Dutch to me, and drove me to think that you had left 
your old home. 

I did not know how to meet the matter, so took the 
cheque to my banker's. He was also a little staggered, 
not only with the amount, but with the address in the 
corner. He took the cheque and promised me news 
later in the day. That news came — but no explanation 
as to the address — so I did not know where to write. 

My dear fellow, it is the magnificence of the contri- 
bution that has been the cause of the bewilderment. 
I, in the name of the fund, send you the most grateful 
thanks. I have no proper words at my disposal to 
express the gratitude I feel. 

Please convey to Lady Lucy, your partner, I am sure, 
in this great act, my thanks and my best wishes. — 
Yours sincerely, Charles Wyndham. 

The address that puzzled Wyndham wrs 
Toby, M.P.'s— " The Kennel, Barks." 

Fourteen years ago Wyndham told me he 
had made considerable progress with pre- 
paration of materials for an autobiography. 
The lives of few men have been crowded 
more fully with events. During the more 
than forty years he has lived in London as 
manager of a theatre he has been brought into 
intimate relations with well-known people of 
all professions. A keen observer, blessed with 
a retentive memory, he is also an admirable 

One story he tells throws an interesting 
light on his early struggles in the United 
States. Brought up to the medical pro- 
fession, he was, from boyhood, drawn towards 
the stage. Going out to the United States 
at the time of the Civil War, he found the 
theatres in a bad way. He accordingly fell 
back on his medical training, and endeavoured 
to get an appointment on the Northern Army 
Medical Staff. Day after day he kicked his 
heels in the ante-room of the great man with 
whom such appointments were vested. 

During one of his long waits a stranger 
entered into friendly conversation. Wynd- 
ham opened his heart, telling him all about 
his aspirations and the blankness of his out- 
look. The stranger, seating himself at the 
table, wrote a little note, which had the 
immediate effect of opening a barred door 
and obtaining for the young Englishman an 
early appointment in the field. 

On looking at the signature of the open 
letter of introduction, he discovered that 
his newly-found friend was T. P. Barnum. 


(To be concluded next month. ^ 

by Google 

Original from 





c^NqIV . 






CH Bovill 0/20* 

Itiiustratecl ir Slf/red 'Jgete 

Roland Blcke was a young 
clerk in a provincial aeed- 
mcrcLant's office wken ke 
acquired a large fortune 
by moat unexpected means. 
He is now engaged % in tke 
following instalment of tkis 
entertaining series, in anotker 
adventure in kis efforts to 
spend it. 

by Google 

T was with a start that Roland 
Bleke realized that the girl at 
the other end of the bench was 
crying. For the last few minutes, 
as far as his preoccupation allowed 
him to notice them at all, he had been at- 
tributing the subdued sniffs to a summer 

He was embarrassed. He blamed the fate 
that had led him to this particular bench, 
and also the economy which had caused him 
to select a bench instead of taking a penny- 
worth of green chair — an economy all the 
more ridiculous because his reason for sitting 
down at all was that he wished to give him- 
self up to quiet deliberation on the question 
of what on earth he was to do with two 
hundred and fifty thousand pounds, to which 
figure his fortune had now risen. 

It was an intermittent source of annoyance 
to him that he could not succeed entirely 
in shaking off his old prudent self. Here he 
was with wealth beyond the dreams of avarice 
— at any rate, of his own avarice — and yet he 
still kept catching himself in the act of 
approaching the world from the point of view 
of a provincial seed-merchant's second clerk. 
He longed to live with a gay spaciousness, but 
habit was occasionally too strong for him. 
Sometimes he would ask himself despairingly 
if the rules of the new life were not too hard 
to learn ; and for some days after one of 
these black moments he was apt to behave 
like a largesse - distributing monarch gone 
mad. Waiters, porters, cabmen, and others 
who came within reach of him at such times 
would dream of retiring with fortunes. 

The sniffs continued. Roland's discomfort 
increased. Chivalry had always been his 
weakness. In the old days, on a hundred 
and forty pounds a year, he had had few 
opportunities of indulging himself in this 
direction ; but now it seemed to him some- 
times that the whole world was crying out 
for assistance. When the world gets within 
earshot of a chivalrous young man with 
plenty of spare cash, it is not apt to be reticent. 
Should he speak to her ? He wanted to ; 
but only a few days ago his eye had been 
caught by the placard of a weekly paper 
bearing the title of Squibs, on which in 
large letters was the legend, " Men Who 
Speak to Girls," and he had gathered that 
the accompanying article was a denuncia- 
tion rather than a eulogy of these individuals. 
On the other hand, she was obviously in 
Another sniff decided him. 
" I say, you know," he said. 

Original from 






What he had meant to say was, " Pardon 
me, but you appear to be in trouble. Is there 
anything I can do for you ? " But the 
difference between life and the stage is that 
in life one's lines never come out quite right 
at the first performance. 

The girl looked at him- She was small, 
and at the present moment had that air of the 
floweret surprised while shrinking which adds 
a good thirty-three per cent, to a girl's 
attractions, Her nose, he noted, was deli- 
cately tip-tilted. A certain pallor added to 
her beauty. Roland's heart executed the 
opening steps of a buck-and-wing dance, 

M Pardon me/' he went on, " but you 
appear to be in trouble. Is there anything I 
can do for you ? " 

She looked at him again— a keen look which 
seemed to get into Roland's soul and walk 
about it with a search -light. Then, as if 
satisfied by the inspection, she spoke, 

" No_, I don't think there is," she said, 
1 unless you happen to be the proprietor of a 
weekly paper with a Woman's Page, and 
need an editress for it." 
[ don't understand. 1 

VuL xlviii. — 8. 

by Google 

" Well , that's all anyone could do for me: 
give me hack my work or give me something 
else of the same sort/ 1 

11 Oh, have you lost your job ? n 

" I have. So would you mind going away, 
because I want to go on crying, and I do 
it better alone ! You won't mind my turning 
you out, I hope, but I was here first, and there 
are heaps of other benches. " 

'* No, but wait a minute. I want to hear 
about this, I might be able — what I mean 
is — think of something. Tell me all about it." 

There is no doubt that the possession of two 
hundred and fifty thousand pounds tones 
down a diffident man's diffidence. Roland 
began to fee* almost masterful. 

(l Why should I ! ? " 

11 Why shouldn't you ? ,J 

" There's something in that/' said the girl, 
reflectively. " After all, you might know 
somebody. Well, as you want to know, I 
have just been discharged from a paper called 
Squibs. 1 used to edit the Woman's Page," 

%£ By Jove , did you write that article on 
' Men Who Speak y ? " 

The hard mapner in wbi^i she had wrapped 




herself as in a garment vanished instantly. 
Her eyes softened. She even blushed. 

" You don't mean to say you read it ? I 
didn't think anyone read Squibs. 11 

" Read it ! " cried Roland, recklessly 
abandoning truth. " I should jolly well think 
so. I know it by heart. Do you mean to say 
that, after an article like that, they sacked 
you ? " 

" Oh, they didn't send me away for incom- 
petence. It was simply because they couldn't 
afford to keep me on. Mr. Petheram was 
very nice about it." 

" Who's Mr. Petheram ? " 

A slight twinge — it would be exaggeration 
to call it jealousy — disturbed Roland's enjoy- 
ment of the conversation. Somehow he did 
not like the idea of this girl being on speaking 
terms with other men. 

For the first time she smiled. 

" Mr. Petheram's everything. He calls 
himself the editor, but he's really everything 
except office-boy, and I expect he'll be that 
next week. When I started with the paper 
there was quite a large staff. But it got 
whittled down by degrees till there were only 
Mr. Petheram and myself. It was like the 
crew of the Nancy Bell. They got eaten one 
by one, till I was the only one left. And now 
I've gone, Mr. Petheram is doing the whole 
paper now." 

" He must be clever." 

" He's a genius." 

" How is it that he can't get anything better 
to do ? " he said. 

" He has done lots of better things. He 
used to be at Carmelite House, but they 
thought he was too old." 

Roland felt relieved. If this Petheram 
was an old man he did not so much object 
to her enthusiasm. He conjured up a picture 
of a white-haired elder with a fatherly manner. 

" Oh, he's old, is he ? " 

" Twenty-four." 

There was a brief silence. Something in 
the girl's expression stung Roland. She 
wore a rapt look, as if she were dreaming of 
the absent Petheram — confound him ! He 
would show her that Petheram was not the 
only man worth looking rapt about. He rose. 

" Would you mind giving me your ad- 
dress ? " he said. 

" Why ? " 

" So that I can communicate with you." 

" Why ? " 

She spoke quietly, but there was an un- 
pleasant sub-tinkle in her voice, as of one who 
had a short way with Men Who Communicated 
with Girls, 

by Google 

" In order," said Roland, carefully, " that 
I may offer you your former employment on 
Squibs. I am going to buy it." 

After all, your man of dash and enterprise, 
your Napoleon, does have his moments. 
Without looking at her, he perceived that he 
had bowled her over completely. Something 
told him that she was staring at him open- 

Meanwhile, a voice within him was mutter- 
ing anxiously, " I wonder how much this is 
going to cost ? " 

" You're going to buy Squibs I " 

Her voice had fallen away to an awe- 
struck whisper. 

" I am." 

She gulped. 

14 Well, I think you're wonderful." 

So did Roland. 

" Where will a letter find you ? " he asked. 

" My name is March — Bessie March. I'm 
living at twenty-seven, Guilford Street." 

" Twenty-seven. Thank you. Good 
morning. I will communicate with you in 
due course." 

He raised his hat and walked away. He 
had only gone a few steps when there was a 
patter of feet behind him. He turned. 

" I — I just wanted to thank you," she 

" Not at all," said Roland. " Not at all." 

He went on his way tingling with just 
triumph. Petheram ? Who was Petheram ? 
Who, in the name of goodness, was Petheram ? 
He had put Petheram in his proper place, 
he rather fancied. Petheram, forsooth. 
Laughable ! 

A copy of the current number of Squibs, 
purchased at a bookstall, informed him that 
the offices of the paper were in Fetter Lane. 
It was evidence of his exalted state of mind 
that he proceeded thither in a cab. 

There might have been space to swing 
a cat in the editorial sanctum of Squibs, 
but it would have been a near thing. As 
for the outer office, in which a vacant-faced 
lad of fifteen received Roland and instructed 
him to wait while he took his card in to 
Mr. Petheram, it was a mere box. Roland 
was afraid to expand his chest for fear of 
bruising it. 

The boy returned to say that Mr. Petheram 
would see him. 

Mr. Petheram was a young man with a mop 
of hair, spectacles, and an air of almost 
painful restraint, as if it were only by will- 
power of a high order that he kept himself 
from bounding about like a Dervish. He 






was in his shirt-sleeves, and the table before 
him was heaped high with papers. Opposite 
him , evidently in the act of taking his leave, 
was a com for table -looking man of middle 
age, with a red face and a short beard. He 
left as Roland entered, and Roland was sur- 
prised to see Mr- Pe the ram spring to his feet, 
shake his fist at the closing door, and kick 
the wall with a vehemence which brought 
down several inches of discoloured plaster. 

11 Take a seat," he said, when he had 
finished this performance, " What can I do 
for you ? " 

Roland had always imagined that editors 
in their private offices were less easily ap- 
proached, and, when approached, more 
brusque. The fact was that Mr, Petheram, 
whose optimism nothing could quench, had 
mistaken him for a prospective advertiser. 

41 1 want to buy the paper/ 1 said Roland, 
He was aware that this was an abrupt way 
of approaching the subject, but, after all, 
he did want to buy the paper, so why not 
say so ? ^ 

Mr. Petheram fizzed in his chair. He 
glowed with excitement. 

M Do you mean to tell me there's a single 
bookstall in London which has sold out ? 
Great Scot ! perhaps they've all sold out ! 
How many did you try ? " 

} -ed by L^OOgle 

" I mean buy the whole paper. Become 
proprietor, you know." 

Roland felt that he was blushing, and hated 
himself for it. He ought to be carrying this 
thing through with an air. 

Mr. Petheram looked at him blankly. 

M Why ? " he asked. 

" Oh, I don't know," said Roland, He felt 
the interview was going all wrong. It lacked 
a stateliness which this kind of interview 
should have had. 

" Honestly ? " said Mr. Petheram. " You 
aren't pulling my leg ? " 

Roland nodded. Mr. Petheram appeared 
to struggle with his conscience, and finally 
to be worsted by it, for his next remarks were 
limpidly honest, 

" Don't you be an ass/' he said. u You 
don't know what you're letting yourself In 
for. Did you see that blighter who went out 
just now ? Did you ever see a man in such a 
beastly state of robust health ? Do you know 
who he is? That's the fellow we've got to 
pay five pounds a week to for life." 


w We can't get rid of him. When the paper 
started, the proprietors — not the present ones 
— thought it would give the thing a boom if 
they had a football competition w F ith a first 
prize of a fiver & week for life. Well, that's 




the man who won it. He's been handed down 
as a legacy from proprietor to proprietor, till 
now we've got him. Ages ago they tried to 
get him to compromise for a lump sum down, 
but he wouldn't. Said he would only spend 
it, and preferred to get it by the week. Well, 
by the time we've paid that vampire, there 
isn't much left out of our profits. That's why 
we are at present a little understaffed." 

A frown clouded Mr. Petheram's brow. 
Roland wondered if he was thinking of Bessie 

" I know all about that," he said. 

" And you still want to buy the thing ? " 

" Yes." 

" But what on earth for ? Mind you, I 
ought not to be crabbing my own paper, but 
you seem a good chap, and I don't want to 
see vou landed. Why are you doing it ? " 

" Oh, just for fun." 

" Ah, now r you're talking. If you can afford 
expensive amusements, go ahead." 

He put his feet on the table and lit a short 
pipe. His gloomy views on the subject of 
Squibs gave way to a wave of optimism. 

" You know," he said, " there's really a lot 
of life in the old rag yet, if it were properly 
run. What has hampered us has been lack 
of capital. We haven't been able to adver- 
tise. I'm bursting with ideas for booming 
the paper, only naturally you can't do it 
for nothing. As for editing, what I don't 
know about editing — but perhaps you had 
got somebody else in your mind ? " 

" No, no," said Roland, who would not 
have known an editor from an office-boy. 
The thought of interviewing prospective 
editors appalled him. 

" Very well, then," resumed Mr. Petheram, 
reassured, kicking over a heap of papers to 
give more room for his feet. " Take it that 
I continue as editor. We can discuss terms 
later. Under the present rtgime I have been 
doing all the work in exchange for a happy 
home. I suppose you won't want to spoil 
the ship for a ha'porth of tar ? In other 
words, you would sooner have a happy, well- 
fed editor running about the place than a 
broken-down wreck who might swoon from 
starvation ? " 

" But one moment," said Roland. " Are 
you sure that the present proprietors will 
want to sell ? " 

11 Want to sell ! " cried Mr. Petheram, 
enthusiastically. " Why, if they know you 
want to buy you've as much chance of getting 
away from them without the paper as — as — 
well, I can't think of anything that has such 
a poor chance of anything. If you aren't 

quick on your feet, they'll cry on your shoulder. 
Come along, and we'll round them up now." 

He struggled into his coat and gave his hair 
an impatient brush with a notebook. 

" There's just one other thing," said Roland. 
" I have been a regular reader of Squibs for 
some time, and I particularly admire the way 
in which the Woman's Page " 

" You mean you want to re-engage the 
editress ? Rather. You couldn't do better. 
I was going to suggest it myself. Now, come 
along quick before you change your mind or 
wake up." 

Within a very few days of becoming sole 
proprietor of Squibs Roland began to feel 
much as a man might who, a novice at the 
art of steering cars, should find himself at 
the wheel of a runaway motor. Young Mr. 
Petheram had spoken nothing less than the 
truth when he had said that he was full of 
ideas for booming the paper. The infusion 
of capital into the business acted on him like 
a powerful stimulant. He exuded ideas at 
every pore. 

Roland's first notion had been to engage a 
staff of contributors. He was under the 
impression that contributors were the life- 
blood of a weekly journal. Mr. Petheram 
corrected this view. He consented to the 
purchase of a lurid serial story, but that was 
the last concession he made. Nobody could 
accuse Mr. Petheram of lack of energy. He 
was willing, even anxious, to write the whole 
paper himself, with the exception of the 
Woman's Page, now brightly conducted once 
more by Miss March. What he wanted Roland 
to concentrate himself upon was the supplying 
of capital for ingenious advertising schemes. 

" How would it be," he asked one morning 
(he always began his remarks with " How 
would it be ? "), " if we paid a man to walk 
down Piccadilly in white skin-tights with the 
word ' Squibs ' painted in red letters across 
his chest ? " 

Roland thought it would certainly not be. 

" Good, sound advertising stunt," urged 
Mr. Petheram. " You don't like it ? All 
right. You're the boss. Well, how would 
it be to have a squad of men dressed as Zulus 
with white shields bearing the legend 
' Squibs ' ? See what I mean ? Have them 
sprinting along the Strand shouting ' Wah, 
wah, wah ! Buy it ! Buy it ! ' It would 
make people talk." 

Roland emerged from these interviews with 
his skin crawling with modest apprehension. 
His was a retiring nature, and the thought 
of Zulus sprfn.tir.ig down the Strand shouting 





" Wah, wah, wah ! Buy it ! 
Buy it ! ,! with reference to his 
personal property appalled him. 
H c was begi nn ing no w h ear t i 1 y 
to regret having bought the 
paper, as he generally regretted 
every definite step which he 
took. The glow of romance 
which had sustained him during 
the preliminary negotiations 
had faded entirely* A girl 
has to be possessed of unusual 
charm to continue to captivate 
li. when she makes it plain 
daily that her heart is the 
exclusive property of A. ; and 
Roland had long since ceased 
to cherish any delusion that 

liessie March was ever likelv 


to feel anything but a mild 
liking for him. Young Mr, 
Pe the ram had obviously staked 
out an indisputable claim. Her 
attitude towards him was that 
of an affectionate devotee 
towards a high priest. One 
morning, entering the office 
unexpectedly j Roland found 
her kissing the top of Mr, 
Petheram's head ; and from 
that moment his interest in 
the fortunes of Squibs sank to 
zero. It amazed him that he 
could ever have been idiot 
enough to have allowed him- 
self to be entangled in this 
insane venture for the sake of 
an insignificant-looking bit of 
a girl with a snub nose and a 
poor complexion. 

What particularly galled him 
was the fact that he was throw- 
ing away good cash for nothing. 
It was true that his capital was 
more than equal to the on- 1 he- 
whole modest demands of the 
paper, but that did not alter 
the fact that he was wasting 
money* Mr. Petheram always 
talked buoyantly about turning 
the corner, but the corner 
always seemed just as far off. 

The old idea of flight, to 
which he invariably had re- 
course in any crisis, came upon 
Roland with irresistible force. 
He packed a bag, and went to 
Paris, There, in the discomforts 
Qf 1 9ifM fcffl'CHTl foreign country. 




he contrived for a month to forget his white 

He returned by the evening train which 
deposits the traveller in London in time for 

Strangely enough, nothing was farther from 
Roland's mind than his bright weekly paper, 
as he sat down to dine in a crowded grill- 
room near Piccadilly Circus. Four weeks of 
acute torment in a city where nobody seemed 
to understand the simplest English sentence 
had driven Squibs completely from his mind. 

The fact that such a paper existed was 
brought home to him with the coffee. A note 
was placed upon his table by the attentive 

" What's this ? " he asked. 

" The lady, sare," said the waiter, vaguely. 

Roland looked round the room excitedly. 
The spirit of romance gripped him. There 
were many ladies present, for this particular 
restaurant was a favourite with artistes who 
were permitted to " book in " at their 
theatres as late as eight-thirty. None of 
them looked particularly self-conscious, yet 
one of them had sent him this quite unsolicited 
tribute. He tore open the envelope. 

The message, written in a flowing feminine 
hand, was brief, and Mrs. Grundy herself 
could have taken no exception to it. 

" Squibs, one penny weekly, buy it," it ran. 

All the mellowing effects of a good dinner 
passed away from Roland. He was feverishly 
irritated. He paid his bill, and left the place. 

A visit to a neighbouring music-hall occurred 
to him as a suitable sedative. Hardly had his 
nerves ceased to quiver sufficiently to allow 
him to begin to enjoy the performance, when, 
in the interval between two of the turns, a 
man rose in one of the side boxes. 

" Is there a doctor in the house ? " 

There was a hush in the audience. All eyes 
were directed towards the box, A man in the 
stalls rose, blushing, and cleared his throat. 

" My wife has fainted," continued the 
speaker. " She has just discovered that she 
has lost her copy of Squibs^ 

The audience received the statement with 
the bovine stolidity of an English audience in 
the presence of the unusual. Not so Roland. 
Even as the purposeful-looking chuckers-out 
wended their leopard-like steps towards the 
box, he was rushing out into the street. 

As he stood cooling his indignation in the 
pleasant breeze which had sprung up, he was 
aware of a dense crowd proceeding towards 
him. It was headed by an individual who 
shone out against the drab background like a 
good deed in a naughty world. Nature hath 

framed strange fellows in her time, and this 
was one of the strangest that Roland's 
bulging eyes had ever rested upon. He was 
a large, stout man, comfortably clad in a suit 
of white linen, relieved by a scarlet "Squibs" 
across the bosom. His top-hat, at least four 
sizes larger than any top-hat worn out of a 
pantomime, flaunted the same word in letters 
of flame. His umbrella, which, though the 
weather was fine, he carried open above his 
head, bore the device, " One Penny Weekly." 

The arrest of this person by a vigilant 
policeman and Roland's dive into a taxi-cab 
occurred simultaneously. Roland was blush- 
ing all over. His head was in a whirl. He 
took the evening paper handed in through the 
window of the cab quite mechanically, and it 
was only the strong exhortations of the 
vender which eventually induced him to pay 
for it. This he did with a sovereign, and the 
cab drove off. 

He was just thinking of going to bed 
several hours later, when it occurred to him 
that he had not read his paper. He glanced 
at the first page The middle column was 
devoted to a really capitally written account 
of the proceedings at Bow Street consequent 
upon the arrest of six men who, it was alleged, 
had caused a crowd to collect to the disturb- 
ance of the peace by parading the Strand in 
the undress of Zulu warriors,shouting in unison 
the words, " Wah, wah, wah ! Buy Squibs I " 

Young Mr. Petheram greeted Roland with 
a joyous enthusiasm which the hound Argus, 
on the return of Ulysses, might have equalled 
but could scarcely have surpassed. It seemed 
to be Mr. Petheram 's considered opinion that 
God was in His Heaven and all right with the 
world. Roland's attempts to correct this 
belief fell on deaf ears. 

" Have I seen the advertisements ? " he 
cried, echoing his editor's first question. 
" I've seen nothing else." 

" There ! " said Mr. Petheram, proudly ^ 

" It can't go on." 

" Yes, it can. Don't you worry. I know 
they're arrested as fast as we send them out, 
but, bless you, the supply's endless. Ever 
since the revue boom started and actors were 
expected to do six different parts in seven 
minutes, there are platoons of music-hall 
pros hanging about the Strand, ready to take 
on any sort of job you offer them. I have a 
special staff flushing the Bodegas. These 
fellows love it. It's meat and drink to them 
to be right in the public eye like that. Makes 
them feel ten years younger. It's wonderful 
the talent kicking &bout« Thosfe Zulus used 





~inal fr~" 



ACROSS THB BOSOlfcTI g I n 3 1 1TQm 


6 4 


to have a steady job as the Six Brothers Biff, 
Society Contortionists. The revue craze killed 
them professionally. They cried like children 
when we took them on. By the way, could 
you put through an expenses cheque before 
you go ? The fines mount up a bit. But 
don't you worry about that, either. We're 
coining money. I'll show you the returns 
in a minute. I told you we should turn the 
corner. Turned it ! Damme, we've whizzed 
round it on two wheels. Have you had 
time to see the paper since you got back ? 
No ? Then you haven't seen our new Scandal 
Page — ' We Just Want to Know, You Know.' 
It's a corker, and it's sent the circulation up 
like a rocket. Everybody reads Squibs now. 
I was hoping you would come back soon. I 
wanted to ask you about taking new offices. 
We're a bit above this sort of thing now." 

Roland, meanwhile, was reading with 
horrified eyes the alleged corking scandal 
page. It seemed to him, without exception, 
the most frightful production he had ever 
seen. It appalled him. 

" This is awful ! " he moaned. " We shall 
have a hundred libel actions." 

" Oh, no, that's all right. It's all fake 
stuff, though the public doesn't know it. If 
you stuck to real scandals you wouldn't get a 
par a week. A more moral set of blameless 
wasters than the blighters who constitute 
modern society you never struck. But it 
reads all right, doesn't it ? Of course, every 
now and then one does hear something 
genuine, and then it goes in. For instance, 
have you heard of Percy Pook, the bookie ? 
I have got a real ripe thing in about Percy 
this week — the absolute limpid truth. It 
will make him sit up a bit. There, just under 
your thumb." 

Roland removed his thumb, and, having 
read the paragraph in question, started as if 
he had removed it from a snake. " But this 
is bound to mean a libel action ! " he cried. 

" Not a bit of it," said Mr. Petheram, com- 
fortably. " You don't know Percy. I won't 
bore you with his life-history, but take it 
from me he doesn't rush into a court of law 
from sheer love of it. You're safe enough." 

But it appeared that Mr. Pook, though coy 
in the matter of cleansing his scutcheon before 
a judge and jury, was not wholly without 
weapons of defence and offence. Arriving 
at the office next day, Roland found a scene 
of desolation, in the middle of which sat 
Jimmy, the vacant-faced office-boy, 

" He's gorn," he observed, looking up as 
Roland entered. 

byGoegl — 

44 What do you mean ? " 

" Mr. Petheram. A couple of fellers come 
in and went through, and there was a uproar 
inside there, and presently out they come 
running, and I went in, and there was Mr. 
Petheram on the floor knocked silly, and the 
furniture all broke, and now 'e's gorn to 
'orspital. Those fellers 'ad been putting 'im 
froo it proper," concluded Jimmy, with moody 

Roland sat down weakly. Silence reigned 
in the offices of Squibs. 

It was broken by the arrival of Miss March. 
Her exclamation of astonishment at the sight 
of the wrecked room led to a repetition of 
Jimmy's story. 

She vanished on hearing the name of the 
hospital to which the stricken editor had been 
removed, and returned an hour later with 
flashing eyes and a set jaw. 

" Aubrey," she said — it was news to Roland 
that Mr. Petheram's name was Aubrey — " is 
very much knocked about, but he is conscious 
and sitting up and taking nourishment." 

" That's good." 

" In a spoon only." 

" Ah ! " said Roland. 

" The doctor says he will not be out for 
a week. Aubrey is certain it was that 
horrible bookmaker's men who did it, but of 
course he can prove nothing. But his last 
words to me were, * Slip it into Percy again 
this week.' He has given me one or two 
things to mention. I don't understand them, 
but Aubrey says they will make him wild." 

Roland's flesh crept. The idea of making 
Mr. Pook any wilder than he appeared to be 
at present horrified him. Panic gave him 
strength, and he addressed Miss March, who 
was looking more like a modern Joan of Arc 
than anything else on earth, firmly. 

" Miss March," he said, " I realize that this 
is a crisis, and that we must all do all that we 
can for the paper, and I am ready to do any- 
thing in reason — but I will not slip it into 
Percy. You have seen the effects of slipping 
it into Percy. What he or his minions will 
do if we repeat the process I do not care to 

" You are afraid ? " 

" Yes," said Roland, simply. 

Miss March turned on her heel. It was 
plain that she regarded him as a worm. 
Roland did not like being regarded as a worm, 
but it was infinitely better than being regarded 
as an interesting case by the house-surgeon 
of a hospital. He belonged to the school of 
thought which holds that it is better that 
people should say of you, " There he goes," 
Original from 




than that they should say, " How peaceful 
he looks." 

Thanks to Mr. Petheram, there was a 
sufficient supply of material in hand to 
enable Squibs to run a fortnight on its 
own momentum. Roland, however, did not 
know this, and with a view to doing what 
little he could to help, he informed Miss 
March that he would write the Scandal 
Page. It must be added that the offer 
was due quite as much to prudence as to 
chivalry. Roland simply did not dare to trust 
her with the Scandal Page. In her present mood 
it was not safe. To slip it into Percy would, 
he felt, be with her the work of a moment. 

Literary composition had never been 
Roland's forte. He stared at the white paper 
and chewed the pencil which should have 
been marring its whiteness with stinging 
paragraphs. No sort of idea came to him. 

His brow grew damp. What sort of people 
— except bookmakers — did things you could 
write scandal about ? As far as he could 
ascertain, nobody. 

He picked up the morning paper. The 
name Windleband caught his eye. A kind of 
pleasant melancholy came over him as he 
read the paragraph. How long ago it seemed 
since he had met that genial financier. The 
paragraph was not particularly interesting. 
It gave a brief account of some large deal 
which Mr. Windleband was negotiating. 
Roland did not understand a word of it, but 
it gave him an idea. 

Mr. Windleband's financial standing, he 
knew, was above suspicion. Mr. Windleband 
had made that clear to him during his visit. 
There could be no possibility of offending Mr. 
Windleband by a paragraph or two about the 
manners and customs of financiers. Phrases 
which his kindly host had used during his 
visit came back to him, and with them 
inspiration. Within five minutes he had 
compiled the following : — 

We Just Want to Know, you Know. 

Who is the eminent financier at present engaged 
upon one of his biggest deals ? 

Whether the public would not be well advised to 
look a little doser into it before investing iheir 
money ? 

// it is not a fact that thi? gentleman has bought 
a first-class ticket to the Argentine in case of 
accidents ? 

Whether he may not have to use it at any moment ? 

After that it was easy. Ideas came with a 
rush. By the end of an hour he had completed 
a Scandal Page of which Mr. Petheram himself 

might have been proud, without a suggestion 
of slipping it into Percy. He felt that he 
could go to Mr, Pook and say, " Percy, on 
your honour as a British bookmaker, have I 
slipped it into you in any way whatsoever ? " 
And Mr. Pook would be compelled to reply, 
" You have not." 

Miss March read the proofs of the page and 
sniffed. But Miss March's blood was up, and 
she would have sniffed at anything not directly 
hostile to Mr. Pook. 

A week later Roland sat in the office of 
Squibs, reading a letter. It had been sent 
from No. i8a, Bream's Buildings, E.C., but, 
from Roland's point of view, it might have 
come direct from Heaven ; for its contents, 
signed by Harrison, Harrison, Harrison, and 
Harrison, solicitors, were to the effect that a 
client of theirs had instructed them to* 
approach him with a view to purchasing the 
paper. He would not find their client dis- 
posed to haggle over terms, so, hoped Messrs. 
Harrison, Harriaon, Harrison, and Harrison, 
in the event of Roland being willing to sell, 
they could speedily bring matters to a satis- 
factory conclusion. 

Any conclusion which had left him free of 
Squibs without actual pecuniary loss would 
have been satisfactory to Roland. He had 
conceived a loathing for his property which 
not even its steadily-increasing sales could 
mitigate. He was round at Messrs. Harrisons' 
offices as soon as a taxi could take him there. 

The lawyers were for spinning the thing 
out with guarded remarks and cautious 
preambles, but Roland's methods of doing 
business were always rapid. 

" This chap," he said, " this fellow who 
wants to buy Squibs, what'll he give ? " 

" That," began one of the Harrisons, 
ponderously, " would, of course, largely de- 
pend " 

" I'll take five thousand. Lock, stock, 
and barrel, including the present staff, an 
even five thousand. How's that ? " 

" Five thousand is a large " 

" Take it or leave it." 

" My dear sir, you hold a pistol to our 
heads. However, I think that our client 
might consent to the sum you mention." 

" Good. Well, directly I get his cheque the 
thing's his. By the way, who is your client ? " 

Mr. Harrison coughed. " His name," he 
said, " will be familiar to you. He is the 
eminent financier, Mr. Dermot Windleband." 

Vol. xMii. — 9. 

[Next month : " The Episode of the Exiled Monarch?'] 

ligitized by GoOgk 

Original from 

The Perfect Policeman. 


In the following pages Mr. W. Heaih Robinson explains, in the whimsical style 

which has made his work so popular, she means of training he would adopt for 

the improvement of our constabulary. Fully to appreciate the ingenuity of his 

ideas, the drawings should be examined in all their details. 


by Google 

Original from 





by Google 

Original from 





by Google 

Original from 




"ERkl 5UBURB5- 

by Google 

Original from 



by Google 

Original from 






Original from 



Author of " The Duchess of Wrexe " etc. 

f/]us6retied Ly C/fAS PEAKS 


RS. COMBER had no idea 
where it came from. She had 
been sitting high on the green, 
sloping cliff at Rafiel, a fish- 
ing village on the south coast 
of Cornwall, looking at the sea, 
and suddenly it came up to 
is perhaps an inaccurate word — 
" tumbled " would describe 

her. " Came " 

"rolled" or 

more nearly its motion, although even then 

one conveys no sense of its sudden, abrupt 

halt, a check so sharp that it seemed as though 

the dog must, by the force of it, be tumbled 


It had come so suddenly from nowhere that 
Mrs. Comber, of course, expected that, in a 
moment, someone (its master or mistress) 
would turn the corner and summon it down 
the hill. But the minutes passed and no one 
came, and the sun continued to blaze out of 
burning blue into burning blue, and little 
Rafiel lay on its back down in the valley 
behind the hill and simmered, and the dog sat 
there motionless, frozen into amazement at 
the vision of Mrs. Comber. 

Mrs. Comber knew very little about dogs, 
but she knew enough to be sure that there 
was no other dog in the world quite like this 
one. He might have been, were he smaller, 
a Yorkshire terrier, or, were he very, very 
much larger, a sheep-dog. He had, too, a 
dash of Skye. He was small but remarkably 
square, so square that he bore a distinct 
resemblance to the popular conception of a 
sea-captain. Hair that was turned up at ihe 
ends of it into little curls by the wind fell ; all 

Copyright, 1914, by Hugh Wal^lfc. 


about him — over 
his eyes, spreading 
into an American 
beard under his 
chin, making his 
legs like the legs of 
an Eskimo, waving 
^ — f--*^ * n f rant i c agitation 
f J ^^^N ft H round his stump 
y^^X ^ of a tail. His nose, 

like a wet black 
button, and his 
mouth, with an 
under-lip that went 
back in rather a 
melancholy curve, 
were his most cer- 
tain ieatures, but 
his eyes, when his 
hair allowed you to see them, were a beautiful 
melting brown. 

Perhaps the most amazing thing about him 
was that the second half of his body was quite 
different from the first half, being broader 
and thicker, so that he seemed to have been 
the complete result of two divided dogs — and 
these two had been rather badly glued 

He looked at Mrs. Comber and then he 
laughed. He gave two short, sharp barks and 
wagged his stump of a tail. 

Mrs. Comber was large and highly coloured. 
Her face was stout and good-natured ; her 
eyes appealed to you as though they said, 
" I know that I'm silly and stupid and scatter- 
brained, but do try to find something to like 
in me." 

She liked to wear purple or bright green or 
red ; she always looked untidy and a little 
dusty ; she was always in a breathless hurry, 
hastening to do something that she had for- 
gotten, and so forgetting something that she 
ought already to have done. She loved to be 
liked, and therefore seized at any sign of 
goodwill, but she always made advances too 
quickly, was flung back, and with tears 
determined that she'd never make advances 
to anyone again, and then made them again 
immediately. Her husband was stupid, con- 
ventional, self-opinionated, and an entirely 
self-satisfied man, who took his wife for 
granted and thought she was lucky to be 
allowed to serve his wants. He was a master 
at Moffatt's, a school not far from Rafiel, and 
there he had been during twenty years of his 
life, and would be in all probability for twenty 

Ql I I '.' I 1 1 




"then, kjs whole body quivering* his lip drew rack and he grennkd, the most 


years more. He liked food and golf and bridge 
and arguments and putting people in their 
places. He despised his wife in her sentimental 
moments and disliked her in her careless ones, 
but on the whole he found her useful* 

Mrs. Comber had felt lonely and just a 
little depressed. Certainly this fine weather 
was very wonderful, and it was a great deal 
better — oh, yes ! a great deal better— than 
that miserable wet time that they had had 
during their first days in Rafiel, but it did 
mean that her husband disappeared every 
morning with his golf-clubs and was no more 
seen until the evening, when he was too tired 
to talk. No one, up at the pension where 
they were staying, appealed to her except a 
girl, Miss Salter, who was at the present 
moment occupied with a young man who was 
expected very shortly to propose. So, in spite 
of her protestations, Mrs, Comber was lonely. 
Up at the villa she said, " I can't tell you how 
delightful it is just pottering about by myself 
^11 about the little place. One gets to know 
che villagers so well. They are always so 
glad to see one, so friendly, it's quite like home. 
I've never enjoyed myself so much*" 

But the honest truth was that Mrs. Comber 
longed for company. As the wife of a school- 
master she had during the greater part of the 
year more than enough of her fellow-creatures. 
One might have supposed that solitude would 
be pleasant for a little time. So in theory it 
was. During the heat and battle of term- 


Of that there 
His brown eyes, 
gazed at Mrs, 

time, to be alone seemed the most fortunate 
of destinies. But now in pr^ctici — now ! 
Mrs. Comber looked at the blue sea and the 
green cliffs and longed for conversation, 
affection, the positive proof that there was 
someone in the world— scoundrel or vagabond, 
it did not matter — who was at that moment 
desiring her company. 

Well, the dog desired it. 
could be no possible doubt, 
through the tangled hair. 
Comber with the utmost devotion* Then, 
his whole body quivering, his lip drew back 
and he grinned, the most pathetic, urgent, 
wheedling grin. 

Down upon the black rocks far below, the 
gulls, like flakes of snow, hovered and wheeled, 
rose and fell. The sea broke into crisp 
patterns along the shore ; its lazy murmur 
mingled with the hum of bees, behind her, 
amongst the honeysuckle. Round the point 
the Rafiel fishing-boats with their orange sails 
stole as though bent on some secret, nefarious 

Mrs. Comber, who was emotional and com- 
pletely at the mercy of fine weather and a 
coloured world, felt that her heart was full- 
She drew the dog towards her. 


Seven o'clock struck suddenly down in the 
valley, and Mrs. Comber ceased her conversa- 
tion with the dog and pulled herself together. 




She would be late, very late, for dinner. 
Meanwhile she had told the dog everything. 
She had explained to him that apparently 
hopeless paradox that although one was 
longing for peace and quiet, yet nevertheless 
one hated solitude. She explained to him all 
the disadvantages of having to do with 
schools most of one's life, and at the same time 
gave him to understand that she was not com- 
plaining, and that many poor people had much 
worse times, and that most of her troubles 
came from the difficulties of her own tempera- 
ment, from her impetuosity and clumsiness 
and bad memory for detail. 

The dog understood every word of it. He 
had a way of sitting with one of his back legs 
stretched out in a right line from his body, so 
that he seemed more certainly than ever to 
be compounded of two different dogs. His 
brown eyes gazed sadly out to sea, but every 
now and again he bent forward and licked her 
hand. She had now no sense, when she had 
finished her impetuous disclosures, of shame 
because she had been too garrulous, too 
intimate, too confiding. The dog could have 
listened to a great deal more. 

He followed closely at her side as she walked 
down the hill. She had still, at the back of 
her brain, a confused sense that his master 
would suddenly appear round the corner. 
She would be very sorry when he was taken 
away from her. 

He ran on in front of her, ran back, jumped 
uponher,showed himself in every way delighted 
at the afternoon's events. When he ran, he 
ran like a rabbit, with his stump of a tail in 
the air, his head down, his ears flapping, and 
his legs scattering. 

The evening scents stole out upon the air. 
The little square harbour was starred and 
crossed with reflected lights — blue and brown 
and grey. The crooked streets flung voices 
from one corner to another and one evening 
star came out. Mrs. Comber climbed the 
opposite hill up to Sea View Villa, and still 
the dog was with her. 

At one of the little cottages at the bottom 
of the hill she stopped for a moment to speak 
to Mr. Tregatta, known in the village by 
the title of " Captain." Captain Tregatta, 
although he was sixty-two, looked not a day 
more than forty. He was short and square, 
with the compact, buttoned look that years 
in the Navy give a man. He had retired now 
and received a small pension weekly. He 
lived for two things — his son and music — and 
he had talked a good deal to Mrs. Comber 
about both of these things. His son was in 
a hosier's in Bristol, and he had not, during 

by V_ 



the last five years, found time to come and 
pay his father a visit, and had quite plainly 
expressed his wish that his father should not 
come and visit him. So his father had waited, 
and now, as Mrs. Comber knew, the son was 
at last coming home. 

" To-morrer," said the captain, as he gave 
Mrs. Comber good-evening, " to-morrer the 
lad's comin', bless 'is 'eart. ' Inconvenient, 
dad, though it is/ 'e writes to me, ' I wouldn't 
dissapint 'ee ' — no, nor 'e wouldn't, bless 'ee/' 

" I'm sure I'm very glad," said Mrs. 
Comber a little doubtfully, wondering whether 
the reality of this reluctant son from a 
Bristol hosier's would be quite so glorious as 
the anticipation. She liked the little captain 
better than anyone in Rafiel. He had a mild 
blue eye, a most sentimental heart, and he 
was lonely. 

" That's a nice little dawg," eyeing Mrs. 
Comber's shaggy admirer, who was sitting 
now with his leg out and his lip in. 

" Yes," said Mrs. Comber, eagerly. " I 
don't know who it belongs to. It just came 
along and attached itself to me. Dogs are 
so confiding, aren't they ? And, really, it's a 
nice little creature. Yes — well, if you hear of 
anyone who's lost one, Captain Tregatta. 
Good night." - 

She climbed the hill ana did hope, as she 
went, that the son would not turn out too 
dreadfully disappointing — five years in a 
hosier's shop could make such a difference. 

It was then, as the hideous front of Sea View 
Villa shone horribly in front of her, that she 
first seriously confronted the question of the 
dog. He, she could plainly perceive, had no 
question at all as to the things that she would 
do with him, and his confidence alone would 
have made it difficult for her to dismiss him. 
But she knew, assuredly, without any question 
of his attitude to her, that she could not leave 
him. It might be only for to-night. Probably 
in the morning someone would come and 
claim him. But to-night she must keep him. 

Then, as she drew nearer Sea View Villa, 
she knew that she would need all her courage. 
Had she been of the type that perpetually 
accuses Fate she would have taken this 
moment as only another instance of the way 
that she was for ever driven into the ludicrous. 
Other human beings passed through life 
gathering what they desired, achieving their 
aims, always, to the end, preserving their 
dignity. But she 

Years ago, when she had first married 
Freddie Comber, she had told herself that, 
whatever happened, for his sake as well as her 
own, she must henceforth never be absurd. 




And since then, beyond her agency, without 
any action on her part, she was driven again 
and again into ridiculous situations. She was 
always being driven into them. Things that 
others could achieve without danger were, 
for her, beset with difficulties. Always the 
laughing audience, always that amused antici- 
pation " that Mrs. Comber would put her foot 
into it." 

Well, for herself, she might perhaps endure 
it, but Freddie did hate it so. He hated it, 
and he showed her that he hated it. 

Now, once again, when an ordinary person 
could arrive with perfect security at a pension 
with a strange dog, Mrs. Comber knew that, 
for herself, it would be a position of danger 
and insecurity. Freddie liked dogs — of his 
own discovering — but he would hate this 
one. The others, with the exception of Miss 
Salter, would see in it " another of Mrs. 
Comber's funny ways." Mrs. Pentaglos, the 
head of Sea View Villa, would be kind and 
polite, but she would disapprove. 

For an instant Mrs. Comber hesitated. 
Then remembering that long exchange of 
intimacies on the cliff she marched boldly 


She had hoped that, on this one occasion, 
Fortune would favour her, would permit her 
to creep round at the back with the dog and 
put him in the outhouse, then gradually, 
at her own time, she might explain to them 
his presence. But, no. How like Fortune's 
treatment of her ! There, to her horror, she 
saw them all, taking their last glimpse at a 
magnificent sunset, sitting in the little green 
strip of garden. 

She could not escape them. Freddie, just 
returned from golf,, was standing, in radiant 
glow from the sunset, enormous, important, 
in the fullest of knickerbockers. 

She heard him say, " You can take my 
opinion for what it is worth, Mrs. Cronnel. I 
don't pretend to be one of these brainy 
fellows." She'd heard him say that so often 
before. Mrs. Cronnel, always fat and yellow, 
but now under the sunset positively golden, 
was filling a large easy-chair and was looking 
up into Freddie Comber's face with rapt 
attention. Miss Bride and Miss Salter, two 
young ladies who were rivals for the hand of 
Mr. Salmon, the only bachelor resident at 
Sea View, were saying bitter things to 
one another in a sprightly and amiable 

All these people turned at the sound of Mrs. 
Comber's feet upon the gravel and saw her 

Digitized by GoOQle 

flushed, untidy, agitated, with a strange dog 
at her side. Mrs. Cronnel, who, for obvious 
reasons, hated Mrs. Comber, cried, with a 
shrill scream, " Oh ! a dog ! " 

Otherwise there was silence. 

Mrs. Comber, laughing nervously, came 

" Oh ! I didn't know you'd all be here ; 
that is, I might have guessed that you'd all 
be looking at the sunset — so natural — but 
here you all are. Yes, I've found a dog, such 
a dear little thing, and it would come all the 
way with me, although I did try to send it 
back. I did really. But you know what 
dogs are, Mrs. Cronnel." (Mrs. Cronnel, who 
detested dogs, obviously, from her expression 
declined to have any knowledge of them 
whatever.) " I hadn't the heart, I hadn't, 
really. Isn't he jolly ? A Yorkshire, I 
think, only he's rather large. He's so hairy 
I think I shall call him Rags," 

Mrs. Comber paused. 

Mrs. Cronnel said, with a cruel little smile, 
" Rather a commonplace name for a dog, 
Mrs. Comber." 

Mrs. Comber laughed nervously. " Oh, do 
you think so ? Perhaps it is ? " 

Then there was a long pause. The dog 
looked at them all and understood at once 
that he was not likely to be very popular 
there. But he had, in all probability, been 
received doubtfully before on other occasions. 
He was brave ; he smiled at them all, wagged 
his tail, went into the middle of them, 
pretended to see an enemy, growled, rolled 
on his back, finally sat up, and, with one ear 
back, lifted his blackberry nose towards 
Mr. Comber with the most amiable of 

Freddie Comber looked at him, then across 
at his wife. " What a cur I " he snapped, 
and vanished. 

Mrs. Comber slowly coloured, and a little 
smile, intended for bravery, but too struggling 
and fugitive for success, came and passed. 

They all saw it, and even in Mrs. Cronnel's 
dry heart there was sympathy. Miss Salter 
fell on her knees before the dog. 

" You darling ! You really are ! Oh, 
Mrs. Comber, how splendid of you to find 
him ! I know Mrs. Pentaglos won't mind. 
He can be kept in the stable. And he looks 
as good as gold. I know he's adorable." 

To all the women, as they stood there with 
the dusk coming up about them, there came 
the thought that men were beasts, that women 
must band together, that no woman in the 
world could ever be so cruel as Mr. Comber 
had been. For the moment they came 


7 6 


together — Miss Bride and Miss Salter, Mrs. 
Comber and Sin. CronneL 

" I knew you'd all love him/' said Mrs. 
Comber, in an ecstasy. 


Freddie Comber was one of those men who 
say a thing by accident and then afterwards 
cling to what they have said as though it 
were the key-note of their lives. He liked 
dogs— he had always liked them, 

Had Mrs, 
Cronnel found 
the dog , or had 
even his own 
Mrs. Comber 
brought it to 
him at a 
pro pi tious 
moment — 
flushed with 
success at golf 
or billiards or 
argument — he 
would in all 
have taken the 
dog to himself, 
acclaimed it as 
his own find, 
petted and 
indulged it. 

But his wife 
had arrived at 
a moment 
when he was 
explaining the 
world to sym- 
pathetic 1 i s- 
teners, she had 
looked foolish 
and frightened 
— the dog had 
been con- 

He had called 
the dog a cur 
in public, 
therefore must 
the dog always 
be a cur. His 
wife had been 
foolish about 
the dog in the 
therefore must 
she always be 
foolish. The 

dog was a nuisance, his wife was a fool— so 
must things remain. 

He regarded Rags, therefore, with exceed- 
ing disgust, and the secret affection that he 
felt for him in his heart only spurred him to 
further obstinate exhibitions of his disgust. 
At any rate, the dog must be a wastrel of the 
very worst description, because nobody came 
to claim him. It was obvious to any intelli- 
gent person that his former owner had desired 
anxiously 7 to be rid of him. Probably the 

i've found a 1>0G, iUCH a dkar little thing, and it would com* 

by Google 

Original from 



dog had some horrible disease or infirmity. 
Probably he had a vicious temper and bit 
children and horses. Drowning was much the 
best thing. 

" I know a bit about dogs/* he would say 
a hundred times a day, " and if ever there 
was a cur ,J 

Secretly, in his heart, he admired it. With 
the other inhabitants of Sea View Villa 
Rags had instantly won his way. 

He was a dog of the most engaging character 


zed by Google 

in the world and of an amazing intuition. 
He realized, for instance, that what Mrs. 
Cronnel liked was for people to be deferential 
to her, to listen, and to admire. He therefore 
lay at her feet and looked up at her golden 
locks with the burning eyes of a devout 
adorer. He never practised upon her his 
humour j of which he had a vast store. She 
did not understand humour. He kept his 
humour for Miss Salter, in whom it lay 
dormant, waiting for encouragement. Miss 

Salter had been 
too anxiously 
engaged in land- 
ing Mr, Salmon 
to see anything 
in a very 
humorous light, 
but Rags re- 
stored to her the 
funny side of 
things and was 
never serious 
with her for a 

To Mrs, Pen- 
taglos he paid 
the deference 
that is due to 
the head of an 
to one who may 
dismiss you in 
an instant into 
the outhouse if 
she so pleases. 
He was always 
very staid and 
respectable to 
Mrs. Pentaglos. 
But it was to 
Mrs* Comber 
only that 
he gave his 

The two of 
them discovered 
during the weeks 
that they were 
together a thou- 
sand things that 
they had in 
common. They 
were really very 
alike in many 
ways, except 
that the dog had 
far more tact, 
adapted himself 

Original from 



much more swiftly to the atmosphere about 
him. Mrs. Comber herself perceived this. 
She saw that the dog at Sea View Villa was a 
very different dog from the dog down in 
Rafiel. At the villa he was ordinary, amusing, 
on the surface. He did little tricks ; he 
played in an amiable manner on the grass ; 
he allowed himself to be petted by Miss Salter 
or Mrs. Pentaglds. Down in the narrow little 
streets of the village he was a dog of import- 
ance and also a dog of mysterious perceptions 
and intuitions. Mrs. Comber felt that, with 
the dog at her side, she was more at home 
amongst those cobbles, bending roofs, sudden 
glimpses of blue water, and clustered fishing- 
boats than she ever was alone. Rags knew 
every inhabitant ; he selected the good from 
the bad, the worthy from the unworthy ; he 
was treated with a deference by the other 
dogs of the place that was remarkable indeed, 
for the dogs of Rafiel were a wild and savage 

To Mrs. Comber the effect of it all was 
astonishing — it was as though the dog were, 
through all these weeks, explaining the place 
to her. She felt it — the mysterious, subtle 
life of it — so poignantly that the knowledge 
that in another week or two she must be 
uprooted from it all and go back to her 
commonplace, workaday Moffatt's — little 
boys, mutton underdone, Freddie overdone — 
seemed to her, through these glorious hours, 
an incredible disaster. 

She couldn't go back — she couldn't go back. 
Then, coming to herself, she laughed. Had 
she not lived that life for all these past 
years ? Could one always expect holiday ? 
Then also, perhaps, if the dog had so lightened 
this place for her he would also lighten 
Moffatt's in the same way. She must take him 
back — she must take him back. Would 
Freddie allow it ? He must allow it. This 
time she would have her way. 

Of all the Rafiel natives Rags liked best 
Captain Tregatta. The little man had an 
affection for all animals, but perhaps it was 
because he represented more truly than any 
other inhabitant the Rafiel spirit that Rags 
liked him so much. They had always, when 
they were together, an air of the most com- 
plete understanding. Captain Tregatta did 
not find it necessary to speak to Rags as 
he would to an ordinary dog. Words were 
not needed. 

Mrs. Comber, indeed, almost resented a 
feeling that she had when she was with 
them both that she was " out of it." 

Rags did not like young Tregatta from 
Bristol. He would go nowhere near him. 

by Google 

He would neither bark nor smile, wag nor 
quiver. He cut him dead. 

Mrs. Comber did not like the young man 
either. He was thin, with lank black 
hair, watery eyes, and a pallid cheek. His 
ears stood out from his head like wings. He 
patronized and sneered at his father. He 
always " washed his hands " as he came 
towards Mrs. Comber, and obviously found it 
very difficult to refrain from saying, " And 
what can I do for you to-day, madam ? " 

They stood, all four, outside Captain Tre- 
gatta's cottage. Young Tregatta said : — 

" Well, it 'as been a fine day, ma'am." 

" Yes," said Mrs. Comber, who was always 
at her most voluble when she was in com- 
pany that she disliked. " It has — really 
wonderful ; so much colour and sun. I " 

" My boy's had a fine outing to-day, 
haven't yer, John ? We went and picnicked 
up along to Durotter, us and the Simpsons 
and Mrs. " 

" All right, father," the young man inter- 
rupted. " Stow it. Stupid day, / call it." 

He caught Rags's eye. Rags was regard- 
ing him with a cold and haughty malevolence. 
He bent down and snapped his fingers. 
" Goo* dog — goo* doggie ! Come along, then." 

Rags said nothing, but continued to stare. 
Mrs .Comber wished them good night and passed 
up the hill. How she disliked the young man ! 
The captain had a wistful look ; she was sure 
that the son had been a great disappointment. 
What a horrid mess towns could make of a 
man ! 

And now was she horribly driven in upon 
her climax. Never in all her married life 
before had she so eagerly desired a request 
to be granted by Freddie. Never before had 
she faced the approaching moment of demand 
with such sinkings of the heart. They had 
only another three days now before they must 
return to Moffatt's, and with every instant 
of the swiftly-vanishing time the spell of 
Rafiel increased. Could she take Rags back 
with her to her daily life, then she would 
seem to be taking with her some of the adorable 
things that belonged to Rafiel. He would 
remind her of some of the most precious 
moments of her life. But, indeed, of himself 
now he had contrived to squeeze himself into 
her heart. Whatever part she might play 
to herself, God knew that for many years now 
that heart had been empty. But Rags had 
wanted it and had taken it. 

She watched Freddie's every movement now 
to give her a clue to his probable answer. 

Original from 




Golf had been well with him during these 
last days ; he was in a good temper. Had 
Mrs. Comber been able to hide her feelings, 
had she managed to surprise him suddenly 
with her request, at the last moment, on the 
eve of departure, she might have won, But 
she was no diplomatist. She showed him by 
her fluttering agitation that there was some- 
thing that she wanted to ask him, and she 
showed him that she was afraid, already , lest 
he should refuse* That determined him at 

by Google 

once. He would refuse. These little oppor- 
tunities of displaying his authority were of 
great value. Every husband ought to refuse 
his wife at least once a month. He would 
certainly refuse. 

The moment came. It was the last night 
but one of their holiday, and Freddie was 
undoing his collar before the looking-glass. 
The head of the stud had allowed itself to be 
bent and the collar refused to move. 

Of course, Mrs. Comber chose this unpro- 

Original from 



pitious moment for her petition. It was odd 
that she should feel seriously about it, but 
her throat was quite dry and her heart was 
beating furiously* 

"Freddie ■" 

11 Yes ? Con-found it ! " 

" Freddie 1 " 

" Well ? " 

" I wonder — I've been thinking — it's 
occurred to me^ " 

The stud broke^ the collar was off, but 
what was one going to do in the morning ? 
There was no other stud with a large enough 
head, and on the very day when there would 
be so much to see to — — 

"Hang it! Well?" 

" Tin so sorry, dear. Perhaps I'll be able 
to find another. What I was going to say, to 
ask you, was whether — if you wouldn't very 
much mind — whether— he wouldn't be in the 
way, really no trouble at all, and it would 
make such a difference to me — and I think 
you'd like him after a time ; it would be so 
nice for the boys too^ and there is that 
kennel " 

w What are you talking about ? " 

He had turned and faced her, his 
cheeks still flushed with the exertion of the 

11 Well " — Mrs, Comber's voice trembled a 
little — "it's only Rags. I thought, if you 
didn't dreadfully mind, if I might — if we 

might — take him back with us to Moffatt's ; 
it would make suck a difference to me. I've 
got to love this place so, you know, and you'll 
think it very silly of me, but if I had Rags 
with me at Moffatt's — well, I know you'U 
think it just like my usual silliness, but I 
should feel as though I had taken a bit of this 
place with me." 

Freddie had said no word, only stood there, 
staring at her, and fingering, absent- mindedly, 
his stud. His face flushed slowly. Her 
allusion to the place had suddenly surprised 
some curious feeling, right down deep in him, 
that he too had loved this Rafiel, had had 
the best of days here, would be immensely 
sorry to leave it. And this sudden feeling 
angered him. What was he doing with 
feelings of that kind ? He was quite ashamed, 
and, resenting his shame, laid the discomfort 
of it to his wife's charge, and beyond her to 
the dog. The dog ! The mongrel ! 

His wife wanted the dog at MoffattV She 
was terrified lest he should refuse. He was 
master. He was a man. No more of this 
miserable sentiment for him. He would show 

" Once for all/' he said, glowering at her, 
" you can put that out of your mind, I've 
hated the dog from the first \ it's a beastly 
mongrel, and the sooner it's drowned the 

i( But, Freddie " 


by Google 

Original from 



" Not another word will I utter. I'm a 
man who means what he says." 

" Please just listen. He " 

" No more. I've got to get undressed. 
You must get rid of the dog." 

She saw that it was final — that, and how 
much else ? For, as he stood there, denying 
her this simple thing, as he looked at her so 
angrily, so cruelly, she knew, once and for 
all, that all her love for him was gone, had 
been gone indeed for many years past. She 
would, in the future, care for him in a pro- 
tecting, motherly way ; she would always be 
a good wife to him, but no more passion, no 
more colour, no more poetry. 

She turned away and lay by his side that 
night as though he were suddenly a stranger. 
In the morning it was almost more than she 
could bear, the joy that Rags, coming to 
meet her, flung upon her. He curved round 
until his tail was nearly in his mouth ; he 
bared his teeth ; his stump of a tail, with 
hair branching out of it on every side until it 
looked like a Christmas-tree, almost wagged 
itself from his body. It was very early, before 
breakfast. Down the hill they went into the 
little village, all sparkling with morning 
freshness, the little quay reeking with fish, 
the cobbles glittering with silver scales. 

She turned the corner and came out on to 
the path that runs above the little harbour. 
The boats, blue and green, lay in rows and, 
beyond and above them, the little white 
cottages stole up the hill into all the misty 
brightness of a summer morning, A haze 
was over the sea, so that it came quite 
suddenly, out of nowhere, white and blue on 
to the rocks. 

The abandon and reality of the beauty of 
it all came up to Mrs. Comber, but she seemed 
to have no place for it. The future of her 
life, how dreary, how purposeless ! Not even 
Rags to comfort her ! For the first time 
since her marriage she rebelled — hotly, 
fiercely rebelled. Why should she not leave 
Freddie ? Why should she be the only one 
in the world to do without things ? Why 
rued she suffer so ? It was the hardest, 
sharpest, cruellest moment of her life. 

Little Captain Tregatta turned the corner. 
Rags ran forward to meet him, jumped 
upon him, licked his hand. But Captain 
Tregatta's face was sad, his shoulders drooped, 
he looked old. 

" Good mamm', ma'am." 

" Good morning," said Mrs. Comber. 

" Lovely day. Yes, indeed, if you're in 
tune for it; but there's nothing like lovely 
weather for making you melancholy if you're 
out of sorts." 

His distress touched her at once. 

" I'm sorry if something's the matter," she 

" Oh ! it's silly. Only my boy. 'E goes 
back to Bristol to-day, and 'e's glad to go. 
Yes, 'e is — I knaws it. And Vll never come 
back, I knaw that, too. All this time I've 
been 'appy thinking that 'e cared for me — 
maybe 'e was a bit busy, but 'e cared all the 
same — and now I knaws 'e doesn't — I knaws 
it ; and now all the days will be without 
something always. It's a long time to be 
waitin', doing nothing, thinking of nothing." 

Rags, with his back legs before his front 
ones, sat hunched up, looking at the sea. 

As she felt the glory of the morning the idea 
came to her — it flashed upon her* 

" Captain Tregatta," she said, hurriedly, 
" I'm going away to-morrow — I can't take 
the dog with me. It wouldn't do in a school, 
you know. Would you look after him for 
me ? Keep him here with you so that he'll 
be here when I come back next summer. 
I've loved Rafiel so, and I feel that if I knew 
you were both here together I would feel as 
though I'd got a link in the place — both of 
you together here." 

" I will, ma'am," he said. " Certainly I will. 
'E'll be 'ere for yer when yer come back to 
us, as I hope you will." Then, with a litth 
sigh of satisfaction, " Yes. That's of it." 

Mrs. Comber thanked him. She waited, 
tried to say more, but failed. 

They all three looked out to sea. Cries 
and bells came up to them from the village. 
Suddenly Mrs. Comber, very red in the 'face, 
caught Rags's body in her arms, gave him 
one hug, and then thrust him into the* 
captain's hands. 

" There — take him — take him. You two 
together will be splendid to think of. Good- 
bye — good-bye. I'm feeling too silly for 
words. Good-bye — good-bye — good-bye." 

She went, almost running, down into the 
flashing village, past the fish, the smells, the 
gossip, the cobbles — up the hill to Sea View 

She did not turn or stay, but in her heart 
there was that picture of the dog and the 
man — both of them wanting her to come 

She had staked her claim in Rafiel after all. 

Vol xlv»i.-1t 

by Google 

Original from 



Illustrated by Alfred Leete. 

It will be remembered that in a recent issue we published 
the following anecdote, sent to us by Mr, J. P. Evans, 
Rossall School, Fleetwood, Lanes, and asked our readers 
to contribute others equally amusing: — 

A paity of staters were once progressing at considerable 
speed down a certain frozen river in Canada when, to the horror 
of his companions, one of ihe party was seen to skate straight 
into a hole in the ice. Before he could stop himself he had fallen 
through it, and the sharp edge of the ice cut his head clean off his 
shoulders* The speed at which he was going, however, caused 
his head to skim along the top of ihe ice, while the rest of his 
body travelled at an equal speed beneath it, until, by a stroke of 
good luck, the severed portions met ai another hole farther down, 
and joined so exactly that the unfortunate man came out of his 
accident with nothing worse ihan a severe cold. 

In response to this invitation we have received hundreds 
of stories, some very " tall" indeed, of which we can only 
find space for (he following selection* 

HILE in the Arctic 
regions 1 had wandered 
with my gun some 
distance from the ship 
when I suddenly per- 
ceived a Polar bear 
approaching me with 
evident intentions. I felt in my pouch 
for a cartridge* I had used my last ! 
The sweat stood on my brow, when 
a bright idea occurred to me, I loaded 
my gun with powder, swept my hand 
across my brow ? and the perspiration 
came off in little lumps of ice* This 
1 rammed down the barrel^took aim, 
and fired. The explosion melted the 
ice in the gun and it emerged from 
the barrel in the form of water ; but 
so cold w r as the atmosphere that it 
immediately froze to a solid lump of 
ice, which struck the bear on the 
forehead^ and he died — from water 
on the brain* 

Mr* A* L. Pound, ShenLey, Shepherd's Hill, N, 

A gentleman was descending the 
ice -covered surface of a steep street 
in Toronto when his feet went from 
under him, and he slid down in a 
sitting posture. He had not gone 
more than a few yards in this position 
when his legs came in contact with a 

1 I^n't GO ANY FART I IKK*" 

by Google 

Original from 



8 3 

lady who was crossing the street, causing her to 
sit down hurriedly on him. They proceeded 
thus together at an increasing speed, and 
shot out on to the square below, when the 
gentleman, coming to rest, said ; " I beg your 
pardon, madam; you must get off here* I 
don't go any farther ! " 

Mr. 1* LA.vibAKTp Marsh Court t Sherborne Dorset* 

A lady and gentleman took seats in a train 
at Yorkj express for Newcastle, and as soon as 
the train got out of the station the lady 
unbuttoned her travelling coat and brought 
out a tiny dog, which she calmly placed on 
her knee, where it sat and growled at the 
gentleman opposite. Whereupon, evidently to 
calm his nerves, he produced a pipe and began 
to smoke. " Oh, I object to smoking/ 1 said 
the lady, tc And I object to dogs," retorted 
the gentleman j and went on smoking. 

This was evidently too much for the lady's 
patience, for she suddenly leaned forward, 
snatched the pipe from his mouth , and threw 
it out of the window, and in a second he had 
also leaned forward and the dog on her knee 
disappeared out of the window after the pipe. 
But guess of their 
mutual amazement 
when the train got 
into Newcastle Cen- 
tral 'Station to find 
the little dog sitting 
patiently waiting 
with the pipe in its 

STOCitttAtf, oi, Holly 
, Tv-ewi 


Avenue, Jesmond L 

A farmer was once 
in his fields, getting in 
his hay, when he lost 
his new keyless watch, 
and considerable 
search was made to 
find it, but without 
success. Five years 
later one of his cows 
was taken ill and 
died, and on opening 
it the watch was 
found in its stomach, 
still going, and had not lost a minute ; 
the movement of its stomach having kept 
it wound up. 

Mr. W. H* Morris, 35, Wilmot Street, Derby. 

The following most remarkable coincidence 
was related by an old lady, who said that in 
her father's house was an ancient clock which 




had been in the family for many years. 
Being old, it would not keep time correctly, 
so it was never wound up, but stood at the 
head of the stairs. Now, whenever there 
was to be a death in the family this clock 
always struck once, at midnight. The lady 
said it struck when her grandfather died, and 
it was also heard at the death of severe! 
brothers 3 one of whom was in a foreign 
land* I told the old lady that it was net 
an uncommon thing for a clock to strike 
at a death, and that it was merely a coinci- 
dence, for they did occasionally strike 
out of time. She admitted all that, but said 
that the remarkable thing about this clock 
striking was that it had no bell in it to 

Mr. H. C. Kales, it, Sweetbriar Road, Leicester, 

A friend of mine is the proud possessor of a 
very intelligent dog, which often accompanies 
his master when the latter walks abroad. 
One day lately, however, Fido seemed 
unwilling to go fcr the usual run. His master's 
bicycle happened to be standing m the hall 
at the time, and — will your readers believe 

it ? — the i n t e 1 1 i - 
gent creature went 
straight up and laid 
a paw on each of the 
wheels in turn to 
indicate that he was 
two tyred to accom- 
pany his master ! 

Mr, R. Pollock, St. Tbeo- 

dore, Victoria Villus, Black* 

fuck, Co. Antrim, Ireland. 

There was once an 
armourer celebra te d 
for his skill in sharpen- 
ing swords, to whom 
a knight sent his 
sword by his squire to 
have the keenest 
possible edge put 
upon it. After 
sharpening it, the 
armourer cut through 
a fleece of wool, 
u Not sharp enough/' 
said the squire , 
Again the armourer sharpened and laid a 
fleece upon the edge of the blade— it imme- 
diately fell in two, " Not sharp enough yet/' 
said the squire. Again the armourer sharpened 
it and placed it lightly on the squire's head. 
u Did you feel anything ? " he asked* " Rather 
as if a drop of water ran down my back/' said 
the squire. " Now shake yourself/ 1 bade the 
Original from 


8 4 



armourer, TJae squire did so, and fell to the 
ground in halves. 

Mr. E. Lynch-Stai;k*\jn; 15, Norton Road, Hove, Sussex. 

Two gentlemen of French descent, whose 
names I have promised not to dbclose- but, 
anyhow, they were in the journalistic pro- 
fession f one being a sub-editor of an evening 
paper published in Paris, and the other an 
artist for a rival publication— had a quarrel 
over some trivial matter, and, as i.s quite the 
custom in France, they finally decided to 
settle the dispute by means of a duel with 
swords. At last the eventful day arrived, and 
the combatants, along with their seconds, 
referee, time-keeper, doctors, and, last but not 
least, a cinematograph operator, had arrived 
at the scene of action. The combatants faced 
each other with grim determination, both 
being confident of victory. After much 
parrying the sub-editor managed to get in an 
overwhelming cut which severed the artist's 
nose* The wounded man dropped his sword 
with a groan, but in falling it had the mis- 
fortune to fall across the big toe of his right 
foot, cutting it clean off. After this interest- 
ing state of affairs he was rendered hors de 
combat The doctors rushed up to replace 
the pieces, but in doing so they made the 
fatal mistake of putting the toe on the artUt's 
face and his nose where the toe should have 
been, and ever since the accident, when the 
unfortunate fellow has wanted to sneeze, he 
has been obliged to take off his boot* 

Mr. Joseph Hattxrsley, 31, Holmes Street, Beech Street, Hull 

Having assembled your company, you 
impressively relate how a man fell into the 

hands of pirates, or brigands, or 
some other bloodthirsty villains, 
who, after lying his hands behind 
his back, chopped off his head. 
Forthwith, with admirable presence 
of mind, the victim picked up his 
still warm head and stuck it on his 
shoulders again, whereupon his 
would-be murderers fled in 
mortal terror. At this stage one 
of your hearers is sure to remark : 
" Ah, but you said the man's 
hands were tied behind his back, 
, so he could not have picked up 
his head," to which you calmly 
repJv : " He picked it up with his 
teeth ! " 

Mr. Geo* A* Vann* 37, Lady ami th Avmue, 


by Google 

Original from 



A man with his favourite dog was hunting 
in an American forest of tall, slim spruce 
when he shot a deer, and the dog at once gave 
chase, running at such speed that he struck a 
tree and was split straight through from nose 
to taiL The man rushed up in despair and, 
catching up the two pieces of dog, clapped 
them together } but in his haste got two feet 
up and two feet down. However, the dog 
was even better than before, for when he got 
tired of running on two feet he could turn 
over and run on the other two, 

Tula M, Cahpentkr, St, Erniiu's Hotel , Si. James's Fai k, 5.W, 

It happened in Gloucestershire, on a hill 
known locally as Birlip Pitch* This is a long 
hill j wooded on both sides, with trees whose 
overhanging branches touch : ancient trees 
whose roots stand exposed where the rain has 
washed away the holding earth. 

Some idea of the steepness of the hill can be 
gained from the practice of the local inhabit- 
ants in winter-time. When the rough road- 
way, down which the winter torrents run, 
becomes covered with sleet and ice the horses 
are sh^d with skates (not horseshoes) upon 
their flanks. Through centuries of practice 
the intelligent beasts have learned to sit upon 
their haunches 
between the 
shafts and, 
placing their fore- 
legs firmly upon 
the slippery 
surface, with the 
cart behind them, 
slide into safety 
into the valley 

Anyhow, the 
adventure which 
illustrates the 
dence happened 
to my brother 
and myself 
during the early 
It was many years ago, when the cross* 
framed ** safety" was making its first 
appearance. Those who are old enough to 
remember the cross-framed " safety " will 
recall that it was just as liable as the high 
bicycle it was endeavouring to replace to 
throw its unfortunate rider over the handle- 
bars. This was due to the very incorrect 
angle at which the front forks first of all were 
placed. I was riding a brand-new cross- 
framed "safety"; my brother still clung to 



by Google 

the old-fashioned high bicycle. We had been 
riding for some hours , for we had started from 
Oxford first thing in the morning. I can well 
remember entering upon the first downward 
stretch of Birlip Pitch. As I have explained, 
the trees overhung the road, which had been 
considerably roughened by storms. 

My brother was riding ahead of me upon 
his old Li ordinary," when suddenly he struck 
one of the stones in the roadway. He was 
pitched forward from the saddle over the 
handle-bars and, strange to say, was caught 
by one of the overhanging branches, so that he 
hung suspended by the waist above the road- 
way. His machine went careering down the 
hilh I ? who was immediately behind him, 
struck the same stone, but from the lower 
level of the seat of my new " safety*" I was 
thrown from my seat with such violence that 
I turned a complete somersault in the air, and, 
to my intense surprise, alighted upon the 
saddle of my brother's "ordinary" bicycle, 
which was in front of me ! My brother, 
watching from the tree, where he was sus- 
pended, dropped from the branch upon the 
saddle of my '* safety'* bicycle, and when we 
got down to the bottom of the hill we found 
that neither of us had sustained any more 

injury than the 
exchange of 
mounts ! 

The one thing 
which is strange 
about this whole 
episode, probably 
the only part 
which anybody 
would be likely 
to question, is 
that upon ex- 
amin ing our 
machines we 
found that, in 
coming down the 
hill, the front 
wheel thin rubber 
tyre of the old 
ordinaryhad ^een 
torn away by the roughness of the road. By 
one of those mysterious chances that do occur, 
I had run longitudinally upon a long grass 
snake, which had fitted into the groove of the 
metal rim and served in place of the rubber ! 
We were faced with a dilemma, whether 
to replace the snake and walk the machine 
into Gloucester or ride on. We decided to 
ride on- When we got into Gloucester we 
had the tyre replaced, and next day we cycled 
back and replaced the faithful snake. 

Original from 



was given to 
boasting that he 
and his pretty wife 
had married for 
love. Nobody 
contradicted the 
good fellow, al- 
though the too 
constant affirma- 
tion exasperated 
certain cynics. 
Burdon, for in- 
stance, Gathorne's 
particular pal, 
had said curtly : — 

"What of it? 
Why do you buck 
about it ? Or, 
rather, why do 
you buck about 
it now ? " 

44 Now ? " 

44 1 mean this. A love match is admittedly 
an experiment which Time alone will justify 
or repudiate. Common sense should have 
suggested to you the expediency of selecting 
a wife with a bit of money, which would have 
helped you enormously in your business. I 
don't say, mind you, that you've made a 

44 1 should think not." 

44 But I do venture to repeat what must be 
obvious to all but impassioned sentimentalists, 
of which you are one, that the first few years 
of marriage are not a sufficient test. The 
eighth year, so I am credibly informed, is 



Uk/strated/ty ctydneyA<iams< 

by Google 

• "What tosh!" 
Burdon shrug- 
ged his broad 
s h o u Id e r s. He 
was a doctor, with 
an increasing 
practice amongst 
women. Also he 
was a bachelor. 
What our neigh- 
bours call un 
cilibataire endwci. 
Tom Gathorne 
began his business 
career as a clerk 
on the Stock Ex- 
change. Later he 
had put some five 
thousand pounds 
into the business, 
receiving in ex- 
change a junior 
partnership. From 
the first he had 
prospered. Pluck 
and Luck — those great twin brethren — had 
fought by his side. 

Bit by bit Burdon and he drifted apart 
whilst remaining staunch friends. Burdon was 
godfather to Gathorne's eldest son — there 
were three boys — and he had kept on good 
terms with Mrs. Gathorne, although she had 
refused somewhat peremptorily to employ 
him as her medical attendant. However, 
from time to time he <4 vetted " Tom. 

The critical eighth year was now rising 
above the horizon. By the luck of things 
Burdon was spending a month with the 
Gathornes in Scotland. Tom had taken a 
small grouse moor with some sea-trout 





fishing. Mrs. Tom and the children made up 
a party of six. The lodge was comfortable, 
and Mrs. Tom prided herself upon house- 
keeping. In short, from a material point of 
view there could be no complaints. And the 
sport had been excellent. None the less, 
Burdon was sensible that his old friend was 
less cheery than usual, and his wife some- 
what irritable. Tom took the hill with a 
shorter stride. Burdon noticed that the 
children were not particularly robust. About 
the middle of September he told Tom that he 
was concerned about him. 

" I'm all right," growled Tom. 

" You've lost weight, my good fellow. 
What's wrong ? Markets dicky ? " 

" Best year we've ever had. I may take a 
forest next season." 

" Liver can't be out of whack with all this 

" I tell you I'm as fit as a fiddle." 

" Foolish expression that. Fiddles are not 
always fit, as any violinist will tell you. A 
Strad is most susceptible, for instance, to the 
company it keeps. You can't put me off, 
Tom. I'm worried about you. On my word 
I am." 

His voice softened, and he laid his hand 
upon Tom's arm, gazing keenly but kindly 
into his friend's eyes. 

" There is something wrong," Tom 

" I knew it. Now — out with it." 

They were alone in the smoking-room. 
Mrs. Tom had gone to bed. Each man was 
smoking his pipe. Whisky and water in long 
tumblers lent an adventitious aid to con- 

" Eve," said Tom, moodily, " no longer 
cares for me." 

" Impossible ! " 

Burdon was genuinely distressed, for Tom 
spoke with conviction. 

" It's like this, old man. She's wrapped 
up in the kids. She devotes herself to them 
— at my expense. See ? " 

Burdon did see. What surprised and 
annoyed him was the realization of not finding 
this fact out for himself. He had written a 
clever pamphlet,entitled "Maternal Instinct." 
In it he had tried to show that women, 
speaking generally, were divided into two 
classes, wives and mothers. He had admitted 
that some women could adjust satisfactorily 
the conflicting claims of wifehood and mother- 
hood, but they, so he affirmed, were rare and 
particular exceptions to the common rule. 

He refilled his pipe, waiting for Tom to 
continue. Tom said, deliberately : — 

by Google 

" You warned me once that the eighth year 
after marriage was critical. It is. For 
example, it is a critical time for the first child. 
Your godson, as you know, is not as sturdy 
as we could wish. The little beggar is my 
successful rival. Absurd, but true. I have 
become — negligible in Eve's eyes. I have 
tried to blind myself to this ; I have tried — 
God knows ! — to make allowance for a 
mother's anxiety. But — there it is ! " 

Burdon nodded. 

" I suppose," continued Tom, " there is 
nothing to be done. I've had a wonderful 
innings, and it's over. It's happened to half- 
a-dozen other fellows of my acquaintance, 
and I shall have to grin and bear it as — as 
they do." 

"Oh, no!" . 

" What do you mean ? You can't imagine 
that I've not done my best. I tell you, man, 
I've laid siege to her, wooed her all over again. 
And she's as cold as Charity, poor dear." 

" Urn ! " said Burdon. 

" I shall get over it, but I feel rather cheap." 

" You look cheap. I think it's time that I 

" I can prescribe for myself. There's the 
business. I've worked fairly hard, but I can 
work harder." 

" And widen the gulf." 

" I could be keener about shooting and 

" You might make love to another woman." 

" As a lure ? Eve would despise me. And 
I'm not built that way. Besides, I might 
be let down again." 

Burdon answered briskly : " I put the 
question merely to hear you answer it. Now, 
look here ; will you let me treat you ? I 
believe that I can do so successfully, byt 
you must place yourself unreservedly in my 

" Drugs ? " 

" Dear me, no ! Can I examine you now ? " 

" You vetted me last May." 

" And I was not quite satisfied with your 
condition then." He rose from his chair. 
" I shall fetch a stethoscope." 

Tom waited, staring into the peat fire, 
which smouldered dully, giving out neither 
heat nor light. Eve's love for him was 
smouldering as dully. He had not a particle 
of faith in Burdon as bellows, but the old man 
meant well. Doctors were so ridiculously 
cocksure ! All the same, he felt mildly 
interested in the vetting. And he knew 
that he would be annoyed if things were not 
right. Constitutionally he was as sound as a 

Original from 





Burdon came back, carrying the stethoscope. 
He had assumed his professional manner and 

The examination lasted three minutes. 
Somewhat to Tom's annoyance., Burdon 
remained silent , but his face indicated per- 
plexity and anxiety, Tom said, nervously ; — 

*' Anything really wrong ? H 

" Nothing." 

by Google 

"Then why the deuce do you stare at me 
like that ? No kidding 1 If there is anything 
wrong, I want to know it*" 

" Last May the heart's action was not quite 
regular. Probably you had been smoking 
too many cigars. To-day you are in tip-top 

11 Good 1 " said Tom, much more cheerfully. 

" I rather hoped to find it otherwise." 

Original from 




" You see, Eve is like most women " 

" She isn't." 

" She has a current fund of sympathy and 
sensibility. Women will never admit that 
this fund is exhaustible. If it were inexhaust- 
ible, Eve would have love enough for you and 
the children. Intuitively, and acting upon a 
sound economic principle, she is meeting her 
obligations in exactly the same spirit in which 
you meet yours." 

" Put it a bit plainer, old man." 

" You do a big credit business ? Yes. 
And on settlement days you pay up when 
payment has to be made, and carry over the 
other accounts." 

" I take you. Eve is carrying over — me ? " 

" She is. Her available cash at the Bank 
of Love has been paid out to the kids. There- 
fore your cheques are dishonoured. To 
change my metaphor, the fountain is not 
running dry, as you fear, but the stream has 
been diverted. Between us we must restore 
the beneficent waters to their old channel." 

" How ? " 

" Your wife must believe that you need 
irrigating. I shall hint that your health is 
causing me concern. I might exaggerate a 
little any cardiac weakness, but unhappily 
your heart is beating like a bull's. Obviously 
nothing is teft to us but pious fraud. In a 
very real sense you are suffering from an affec- 
tion of the heart, and, speaking as your medical 
man, I advise you to go to Nauheim after 
leaving Scotland. Eve must accompany you, 
and the children will be left behind. I shall 
go, too, and play gooseberry. What do you 

" I am to sham illness, excite Eve's pity, 
abandon the children, and play the tame goat 
at a beastly German spa ? " 

" That's admirably put." 

" Of course I shall do nothing of the kind." 

" Then I'll go to bed." 

" I'm awfully obliged, old chap, but you 
see what you suggest isn't cricket." 

" Perhaps not. Good night." 

Burdon went to his room. He undressed 
slowly, thinking of his friend. 

" I was a fool," said Burdon to himself, 
u to tell Tom that he had a clean bill of health. 
No man can afford to be honest with a patient." 

He was still frowning when a sharp tap on 
the door was followed by Tom's entrance. 

" You look heated," said Burdon, calmly. 

His host's eyes were sparkling savagely 
out of a red face. 

" It's a bit too thick, old man ! Eve is 
sleeping in young Tom's room. There's not 

VoL xhriiL— 12. 

Digitized by L^OOgle 

the smallest necessity for it. She admits that. 
But she likes to be with him. We've had a 
bit of a rumpus. I'll admit to you that I 
got the worst of it, because I lost my temper. 
Eve remained perfectly calm. She talked a 
lot of twaddle about duty. Somehow it came 
home to me that she wants a shock. I'm 
on to this little game of yours, cricket or 
no cricket. You have my leave to tell my 
wife that my* days are numbered. So they 
are. Pitch it as strong as you like ! She 
wants stirring up. She accused me, by 
George, of being too robust ! You let yourself 
go. Don't spare her feelings ! She doesn't 
know a word of German, and she'll loathe 
Nauheim. You'll play doggo and keep out of 
sight. She'll just have to concentrate on me." 
" Right," said Burdon. 


At breakfast next morning Mrs. Gathorne 
was preoccupied, as usual, with the children. 

" Naughty Tommy kept his mumsie awake." 

" Why ? " 

Brutal monosyllables are a woman special- 
ist's stock-in-trade. 

" He was so restless in his sleep, poor 

" Too much dessert," said Burdon. " When 
kids get their deserts they pay for 'cm." 

Tommy always listened attentively to talk 
about himself. That is why many children 
die young. He remarked, solemnly : — 

" I do have the indigest. It hurts." 

In a whisper, overheard by all, but intended 
for a doctor's ear alone, Mrs. Gathorne made 
an illuminating remark : — 

" Heartburn." 

" Bicarbonate of soda," suggested Burdon, 
with deep sympathy. 

Tom senior toyed with a bit of toast, 
refusing grilled trout and kidneys. 

" Indigestion is the very devil," he observed. 

His wife glanced at him. 

" How do you know, dear ? " 

" I do know," he replied, with emphasis. 

Just before breakfast Burdon had led him 

" Play with your food," he counselled. 
" When Eve follows the kids out of the 
dining-room you can pitch in. Twig ? " 

Tom twigged. 

But Mrs. Gathorne did not follow the 
children when they scampered away. Possibly 
her conscience was pricking her. Possibly 
also she wanted justification from a profes- 
sional man. 

" I am so worried about Tommy," she 

Original from 



" You needn't be. Is it wise to discuss his 
infantile ailments before him ? " 

" Right you are ! " exclaimed Tom senior. 
" Fatal error ! " 

" Not fatal so far/' amended Burdon. 

Eve betrayed uneasiness. " I can't help 
being anxious." 

At this moment Tom executed a strategic 
movement. He rose languidly, walked to the 
side-table, pocketed a cold grouse and three 
scones, and vanished. Eve, with her back to 
the side-table, did not see him. As soon as 
she was alone with Burdon, she said, eagerly: — 

" I came to Scotland on the children's 

"Really? Not on Tom's ? " 

" Tom's ? " 

" Poor old Tom." 

" Poor old Tom ! " 

" I vetted him last night in the smoking- 
room. Can I speak to you with entire 
frankness ? " 

" Please do ! But you terrify me." 

" I will say this to relieve your anxiety. 
There is nothing organic — as yet." 

" Nothing — organic ? " 

" Nothing — incurable." 

" Heavens ! " 

" I may be mistaken. But in my opinion 
Tom, with care, may live to be fifty. With 

Her face paled. Burdon went on, relent- 
lessly : — 

" Tom's appearance is deceptive. You may 
have noticed that he is thinner ? " 

" Surely he ought to be thinner ? " 

" He ate no breakfast this morning." 

" Dr. Burdon, please tell me the worst at 

" How did he sleep last night ? " 

Eve explained, in some confusion, the 
reason why Tom had slept, or had not slept, 
alone. With increasing agitation she en- 
treated the truth. 

" Well, there is an affection of the heart — 
let us call it cardiac weakness. Fortunately, 
it is amenable to treatment." 

Eve's eyes grew moist. Burdon felt a 
beast, but he continued : — 

" You ought to take him to Bad Nauheim 
after Scotland." 

" I hate the idea of going abroad with three 

" They must be left behind." 

" Left— behind ? " 

" I want you to give your undivided atten- 
tion to your husband. Talk with him ; walk 
with him ; in short, mother him t " 

" Is it really as serious as that ? " 


Burdon nodded grimly. 

Eve burst into tears ! 

Afterwards, Burdon admitted to Tom that 
the affair had been too easy. Both men 
would have enjoyed a less one-sided victory. 
Eve surrendered unconditionally. She 
arranged that the children should be left with 
her mother, a somewhat Spartan lady, with 
no inclinations towards spoiling little ones ; 
she secured rooms at Nauheim ; she tore Tom 
from the last week's sea-trout fishing ; and, 
finally, she implored him to consult the 
greatest English specialist. 

" Burdon," said Tom, " understands me." 

She was told that Burdon intended to 
accompany them. This, it will be guessed, 
was the last straw. Burdon, as she well knew, 
was an extremely busy man. Tom's condi- 
tion must be serious indeed if Burdon insisted 
upon neglecting a fine practice. 


Three days later the Gathornes and Burdon 
left England. At the end of a fortnight Tom 
was eager to allay his wife's anxiety, by 
confessing the truth. Her devotion — so he 
pointed out — was obvious. The beneficent 
waters of love had been redirected into the old 
channel. She could hardly bear Tom out of 
her sight. 

Burdon, however, while admitting this, 
insisted upon a radical cure. 

" Our pious fraud," he said, " will infuriate 
her. A reaction will take place. She will 
rush off to the kids and leave you to stew in 
your own juice." 

Tom was constrained to acknowledge the 
probability of this. 

" You must never tell her," continued 

" Never ? " 

" Never." 

Tom looked abjectly miserable, but one 
glorious fact illumined the present and future. 
Eve loved him. Of course, she had always 
loved him — with natural intermittences. 

" Men," remarked Burdon, " must exact 
love from their wives. I contend that a 
husband — or a wife, for that matter — is 
entitled to the fidelity and devotion which 
he or she can exact." 

" By hook or by crook ? " 

" Unquestionably." 

" I feel such a cad." 

" There are moments when you look one. 
Be careful about that." 

" And these filthy waters have pulled me 

" To her level, mark you. It's an interest- 









ing pathological fact that a too robust man 
like yourself is more affectionate when he is 
below par." 

Another fortnight passed. 

And then something happened quite un- 
foreseen by Burdon. He was about to return 
to Harley Street, triumphant in the knowledge 
that he had treated this affection of the heart 
to a successful issue. Upon the eve of depar- 
ture his friend's wife led him aside. 

" I want to consult you/' she said, " pro- 

" Professionally ? " 

" You will promise me not to tell Tom. I 
am feeling rather queer. If there is any- 
thing the matter with me, it would upset 
Tom dreadfully, wouldn't it ? " 

Burdon nodded. 

" Undo your clever stitches ? " 

" It— might." 

" I believe my heart is affected, too. Please 
examine me," 

Burdon looked uneasy. Perhaps for the 
first time in his life his face betraved him. 
The lay mind may refuse to admit it, but con- 
science does make cowards of some doctors. 
He told himself, with abject conviction, that 
this dear little woman had been tried too high. 
Anxiety concerning Tom had undermined her 
own health, never too robust. 

He began to ask questions. 

" Why do you think that your heart is 
affected ? " ^ 

" I have disagreeable palpitations. I don't 
sleep well. How can I sleep when at any 
moment dear Tom may be snatched from 

" I never hinted at such a catastrophe." 

" Your voice quavered when you told me 
there was cardiac weakness. You tried to 
spare me, but a wife is never deceived." 

" At any rate, you can rest easy now. Tom 
is almost himself again." 

" That is what worries me so. Gentle 
exercise with me is not enough for him. He 
wants to be shooting and golfing. In his 
heart he is pining for the office." 

" Urn ! " 

" He has quite regained his appetite, but 
I have lost mine. Please examine me ! " 

Burdon did so. By this time he had re- 
gained his impassive expression, but he was 
thinking more of Tom than of Tom's wife. 
He felt absurdly angry with his old friend. 
How dared he prattle about shooting and golf. 
Was he growing weary of being mothered ? 
He gave a short grunt of dissatisfaction. 

" I am not mistaken," said Eve, quietly ; 
" there i$ trouble," 

by Google 

" Well — er — yes. Nothing to be alarmed 

" We must keep it from Tom." 

" My dear lady, we can't." 

" A pious fraud." 

His own words came back to roost in a 
distracted head I Burdon pulled himself 
together. He smiled reassuringly. 

" Tom is strong enough to know the truth." 

" I'd sooner get a little worse." 

" You may get much worse. Come, come ; 
trust me. I'll speak to Tom. I promise you 
not to alarm him. Strictly between our- 
selves, this small trouble of yours will serve 
to distract his mind from golf and shooting. 
He has become restive under treatment. I 
swear solemnly to you, first, that I can put 
you right in three weeks, and, secondly, 
that it will do Tom a lot of good to look after 
you as tenderly as you have looked after him. 

Reluctantly she consented that Tom should 
be told. 

Now, picture to yourself, if you can, Tom's 
consternation and distress when he was told. 
The poor fellow, hoist with his own petard, 
wanted to fling himself at his beloved Eve's 
feet and anoint them with the spikenard 
of unavailing tears. If anything went wrong 
with her he would hang himself as a murderer. 

" Nothing will go wrong with her, humanly 

" I must set her dear mind at rest about 

"Then I wash my hands of both of you. 
This serves you right. You wanted your wife's 
undivided devotion and love. You've had it." 

" At what a cost ! " groaned Tom. 

" Keep cool. I have noticed lately a rest- 
lessness in you, a desire, no doubt, to escape 
from an uneasy conscience. Possibly, too, 
this second honeymoon is waning. You have 
been talking about business and golf." 

" Merely to divert Eve's mind from dwelling 
too persistently upon my unworthy self. 
Together we have been perfectly happy." 

" Thanks. I have tried not to play goose- 
berry. Now for my prescription. Eve and 
you must motor together through Provence. 
It is heavenly down there in October. You 
can make a gastronomic tour. The hotels 
are excellent. Digesting a bouillabaise will 
distract both your minds." 

" Very sound ! We could take the kids. 
Eve has been pining for them, I expect. 
Lord, I do feel a brute ! " 

" Possibly. But don't talk like an ass ! 
Eve mustn't be bothered with the children. 
Allay her anxiety about you, and she'll be as 
right as rain. Get a good dose of sunburn ! 

a I I I _* I 1 1 








These waters have bleached you. Amuse 
her, and amuse yourself. In just one month 
from date report to me in Harley Street." 

" You're not leaving to-morrow ? " 

" If I stayed I should alarm her unneces- 
sarily. My going will -confirm my assurance 
that there is really nothing serious. See to 
it that she takes the capsules which I shall 
entrust to you. One after each square meal." 

" Anything else ? " 

" Send for your Rolls-Royce. Live in the 
open ! Eat, drink, and be merry ! " 

Next day Burdon returned to London. 

! IV - 

He did not see his two patients till the 
prescribed month had expired. Then they 
presented themselves in Harley Street, two 
sun-tanned specimens of radiant health. 
Burdon chuckled as he listened to a duet of 
praise and thanksgiving. He examined each 
patient in turn, waving his stethoscope as if 
it were the baton of an all-conquering field- 

" You are," he declared, " absolutely sound. 
I congratulate you, and I congratulate myself. 
This ; s the sort of moment that makes a hard- 
driven doctor's life worth while. How are the 
kids ? " 

" Simply top-hole," said Tom. 

" I must admit," said Eve, " that mother 
understands children better than I do." 

"Aword with you alone, old man," said Tom. 

The men retreated to Burdon's dining-room. 

" I haven't told her yet," murmured Tom, 
" but I must." 

" I'll tell her," said Burdon. " You stay 
here and fortify yourself with a whisky-and- 
potass. Not a word ! In five minutes come 
back to the consulting-room. 'Shush-h-h-h ! " 

He hurried away, leaving Tom open- 
mouthed, unable to express gratitude and 
relief. Burdon joined Eve and laughed. 

" What's the joke ? " she asked. 

" I can answer that. It's not so easy 
to locale it. Is it on me, on you, or on Tom ? " 

" I beg your pardon ? " 

" You are perfectly well and happy ? " 

" I am, thanks to your wonderful capsules." 

" And dear old Tom is happy, too ? " 

" Ab— solutely ! " 

" And the children are " 

" As bonny as children can be. And when 
I pause to reflect that less than three months 
ago Tom was ill, and the children ailing, and 
the seeds of disease in me, I call you just a 

" Thanks ! Here's Tom. I want to make 
confession. You have never been ill." 

" What ? " 

Burdon, standing upon his hearthrug, lifted 
a minatory forefinger. 

" This is the eighth and critical year of your 
marriage, now triumphantly passed. I must 

remind you, Eve — may I call you Eve ? 

Thanks. I must remind you that, much to 
my chagrin, you once refused to employ me 
professionally. Tom stuck to me gallantly. 
Because of that, and because I, so to speak, 
forced my services on you, I shall charge no 
fee. Well, quite frankly, I was hurt, and this 
year in Scotland I confess that I was not 
altogether displeased to find the children 
rather the worse for an eminent colleague's 
ministrations, and you " — he stared keenly at 
Eve — " on the ragged edge of a breakdown." 

Eve could hold her own. She replied with 
spirit : — 

" I don't deny it, but Tom, under your 
fostering care, was breaking down too." 

" That is where the joke comes in. Tom 
has not been ill either. Under my advice — 
and I accept full responsibility — Tom malin- 
gered. That Nauheim visit was a ' plant.' 
I faked the affair. I wanted to separate you 
from the kiddies, because you were fussing 
them and yourself into coffins. Also, Tom 
needed that particular attention .which only a 
loving wife can give. Tom said at the time 
that it wasn't cricket. Medicine is not 
cricket, although cricket may be good 
medicine. In fine, I beheld five persons, all 
of them dear to me, who were floundering 
helplessly in their own ignorance and inex- 
perience. Tom needed you, and thanks to 
me again you got him. The children needed 
plain food, wholesome discipline, and a rest 
from over-fussing. Thanks to me your 
nursery has a clean bill of health. Now — 
where is the joke ? " 

Eve looked at Tom. The motor trip 
through Provence had been an imperishable 
memory. Tom looked at Eve, recalling the 

Eve answered the question. 

" The joke," she said, " is on poor mother. 
She told me this morning that the responsi- 
bility of three small boys had brought on 
acute dyspepsia. You must prescribe for 

" Have the children left her ? " 

" Yes ; they are at home." 

" Tell your mother, with my compliments 
and respects, that she will be perfectly well in 
three days." 

" Fee or no fee," said Tom, " you must 
dine with us at the Ritz to-night." 

" I shali be delighted," Burdon replied. 






WJrJ&fffl :.U? 

Here we have twenty tiles, all coloured with the 
same four colours, and the order of the colouring is 
indicated by the shadings ; thus, the white may 
represent white ; the black, blue ; the striped, red ; 
and the dotted, yellow. The puzzle is to select any 
sixteen of these tiles that you choose and arrange them 
in the form of a square, always placing similar colours 
together — white against white, red against red, and so 
on. It is quite easy to make the squares in paper or 
cardboard and colour them according to taste, but the 
order of the colours must be exactly as shown in the 

I have a cylindrical cup four inches high and six 
inches in circumference. On the inside of the vessel, 
one inch from the top, is a drop of honey, and on the 
opposite side of the vessel, one inch from the bottom 
on the outside, is a fly. Can you tell exactly how far 
the fly must go to reach the honey ? 

A MAN planted thirteen trees in the manner shown, 
and so formed eight straight rows with four trees in 
every row. But he was not satisfied with that second 

tree in the hori- 
zontal row. As he 
quaintly put it, "it 
was not doing 
enough work — 
seemed to be a sort 
\ of loafer.'' It cer- 

/^ ";*£.' S'^Rg'"^ tainly does appear 

/',.-' - .."- : 4 : " ". % ^ \ to be somewhat out 

'V/^---*' ~*~-*X\ of the game, as the 

< ? : " £• fi ~*2£ only purpose it 

serves is to com- 
plete one row. So he set to work on a better 
arrangement, and in the end discovered that he could 
plant thirteen trees so as to get nine rows of four. 
Can the reader show how it might be done ? 

It occurs to me to attempt a slight improvement 
in the " buried words " pastime, by concealing the 
words in rhymed couplets that shall themselves both 
give the clue to what is sought and have some apparent 
relation to the word itself. In the first couplet the word 
" here " shows that we must seek a place. In the 
second, " his " points to a man. Can you excavate 
the nine words ? 



The man of many wives we may find here, 

But, ah ! he erred, I very greatly fear. 

And as his noble fleet goes sailing out, 

All down the channel song on song they shout. 

Her song is like the song of Philomel ; 

Ballad and opera both suit her well. 

While on this island Tompkins shot a bear — 

The only animal taken by him there ! 

Mere dithyramb and sonnet you may find 

His verse ; his prose seems better to your mind. 

His creatures make the critics' tongues to wag ; 

Nereids, gods, with dragon, dwarf, and hag. 

See here the huntsmen ride abroad to kill ; 

Away they go. and over dale and hill ! 

To paint or n t to paint ; ah, that's the rub ! 

Enshrined, adi lired, contemned, in world's hubbub. 

Look in the air, though wise as Solomon ! 

O planets, like yourselves, through space 'tis gene ! 

The word '* facetiously " contains the six vowels, 
a, e, i. o, u, y, in their alphabetical order. Can you find 
another English word that does the same ? 

Solutions to Last MontlTs Puzzles. 


• iV 

• • 


• • 

• • 


• • 

• • 

• • 






1 • 

• '.•• 

• • • • 


• • 




• • 

• • 


• • 






• ••• 

• ••, 

• •• 


The illustration shows one way in which the dominces 
may be laid out so that, when the line is broken in four 
lengths of seven dominoes each, every length shall con- 
tain forty-two pips. 

Nine shillings and ninepence. 

First remove the apple on square 8 to square 10. 
Then play as follows, where the numbers indicate the 
squares, as shown in the original diagram: 9 to 11, 
1 to 9, 13 to 5, 16 to 8, 4 to 12, 12 to 10, 3 to 1, 1 to 9, 
9 to 1 1 . 

19 8._ A CHARADE. 
The word is Tant- 

199.— THE 

The illu stration 
shows how the five 
pieces can be put 
together to form the 



'_■ ■ ■ ■ 


flfcisfmted J&r *Mi$$ Hoeknell 

]T was an evening in June, and 
the hay having been carried 
and stacked , the rain which 
fell steadily and glistened in 
the deep ruts in the high 
road seemed a matter of slight 
importance in the Midland 
agricultural district. But the air blew raw 
and cold, chilling to the hearts the pair of 
mud -stained tramps who plodded on wearily 
and silently ; the man a yard or so in advance, 
with a soiled mackintosh bag slung over his 
shoulder, and the woman, limping painfully 
in the rear, carrying a child, whom she pro- 
tected from the downpour with her weather- 
stained cloak. 

They were young, 
being under thirty 

these two vagrants, he 
years of age. and she 


scarcely more than a girl, 
and the features of both 
were handsome, and 
showed traces of some 
original refinement ; but 
the expression of sullen, 
open defiance in the faces 
blotted out, to the casual 
observer, ail possible good 
looks, and more than one 
woman ; trudging along 
the muddy footpath, 
shivered involuntarily on 
meeting the man's des- 
pairing glance, and 
thanked Providence that 
she had a roof to shelter 
her at the end of her 
journey, while these two 
evidently had not. 
For more than an hour the man and woman 
had stumbled on, their sodden boots squelch- 
ing in the mire, in a silence which was only 
broken by a groaning sigh from tin* girl or an 
oath from the man when a passing wagon, or 
a noisily-panting motor, covered them with a 
muddy deluge, and then they reached the 
outskirts of Bakestone, an agricultural townlet 
which, despite its insignificant size and meagre 
population, was the centre of business in the 
sparsely-peopled locality, and boasted a 
bachelor mayor and a corporation. 

A couple of hundred yards from the com- 
mencement of the narrow High Street the 
woman stopped and relieved her thin arms 
of some of the strain of the weight of the 
sleeping child, by resting him on the top bar 
of a gate which ?ed into a field* 


The man walked on for a few paces, and 
then, missing the sound of her crunching foot- 
steps, called out without turning his head : — 

" Come on j Nan ; what are you stopping 
for ? M 

(t I can't go another step/ 1 she answered, 

14 Why not ? " 

li The boy is so heavy," 

** Then let him walk." 

** Walk on such a road with no shoes to his 
feet ? " she cried, 

" Well, it's only what they call gentle 
summer rain, isn't it ? " he asked, with a 
sneering smile. 

" It's as cold as winter/' she retorted. 

He shrugged his thin shoulders as he looked 
round at hen 

" Du as you like, Nan, carry the kid or let 
him walk. I strained my back over that 
motor job. The pub/s not more than half a 
mile farther on, just over the canal bridge by 
the church yonder* A strong lad like that 
can do it easily." 

The tired girl's eyes gleamed with wrath. 

14 I don't believe you've got a heart, Chris/' 
she muttered, unsteadily. 

" No, I expect not," he retorted, with 
another mirthless smile, " Come on, now. 
There's a storm brewing over there. Put 
the boy down if you can T t carry him, but 
come on." 

" He's asleep, Chris. I can't/' she wailed, 
bursting into tears. tl I can't wake him up 
by putting his little feet into this cold, wet 
mud ; mine are like ice. Oh, Heaven ! I 
wish we were all dead." 

* l Ah, very likely/' he responded, bitterly, 

Vol. xiiiiL-13. 

by Google 

" but you see we can't arrange these matters 
for ourselves, so come along.' 1 

" And when we do get to the pub., what 
then ? " she asked. 

He flushed and shifted his eyes uneasily, 

" I must have a drink/' he answered. "Tm 
about done up for it." 

" And what about me and the boy ; we 
stop outside, I suppose ? n 

11 You must ; you know we can't take the 
kid in. But there's a porch with seats at the 
Cat and Mouse/' 

" A porch ? A nice evening to sit out in 
a porch, isn't it ? And after ? 51 

" Oh, after, we can get some bread, and 
fill the kid's milk-bottle, and turn into a barn 
I know a quarter of a mile farther on down a 
lane/' he explained, wearily ; (i we shall find 
shelter there at any rate. That is if the barn 
still stands where it did in my time/' 

" Your time ? n she repeated, her curiosity 
faintly stirred. 

" Yes, I was born a mile from Bakestone, 
I'm breathing my native air, but I can't say 
I find it invigorating, Oh, come on, Nan/' 

They toiled on again, and for a minute or 
two neither spoke, but presently the girl 
stumbled over a stone In the path, and the 
child, rudely startled out of his sleep, cried 
aloud, and at the sound the man turned hastily* 

An instant he regarded silently the piteous, 
woe-begene figure of his exhausted wife, 

u Here" he said, li since you won t let him 
walk, give him to me and take the bag," 

His tone was rough, but he lifted the boy 
from the mother's trembling arms gently 
enough, and the little lad, with his bright 
eyes still misty with sleep, smiled up into 

Original from 




the man's face before nestling his curly head, 
from which the woollen cap had fallen, 
confidingly against his shoulder, 

il Daddy carry Frankie," he lisped, softly, 
putting up his chubby hand and stroking 
his father's thin cheek. " My daddy carry 
Frankie now.-' 

And at the soft , warm touch and the gentle, 
regular breathing 
against his breast 
a sudden revul- 
sion of feeling 
came over Chris- 
topher Allan, 
Something un- 
familiar seemed 
to stir in his 
aching heart, 
bringing with it 
a sense of com- 
parative comfort. 
It was quite an 
indefinite sense, 
and . he would 
have been en- 
tirely puzzled to 
explain why at 
that moment the 
black, impene- 
trable shadow 
which darkened 
his future seemed 
to show through 
its density a tiny 
rift of light. 

Hugging the 
child closely to 
him, he walked 
slowlv forward, 
and presently the 
little lad raised 
himself and, slip- 
ping one arm 
round his father's 
neck and kiss- 
ing his throat 
lovingly, with a 
murmur once 
more nestled his 
head down and 
fell asleep, 

Christopher Allan stopped, that his weary, 
lagging wife might catch up with him. 

" He's off to sleep sound," he said, " and 
you're right , Nan— he is a weight, a wonderful 
weight for a kid of his age/' 

His tone was gentle as he looked down on 
her ? and her eyes again filled with tears. 

" He doesn't strain your back, does he ? " 

Digitized by Google 

l i^--«^ie^ 



she asked T quickly. "If he does, give him to 
me, I'm rested now; 1 can manage quite 
well until we get to the pub/' 
But Allan shook his head, 
" You've done your share of carrying for 
to- day , Nan, He doesn't strain me a bit, 
I only meant it's queer that we two wasters 
should have such a kid as this, eh ? " 

" We weren't 
always wasters, 
Chris," she re- 
spondedj un- 

"No, and you 
were a very 
pretty girl. Nan. 
The little chap 
takes after you." 
A taint glow of 
colour rose in the 
girl's faded 
cheek , and her 
eyes brightened 
as she looked 
quickly up at 

14 Why, Chris/ 
she cried, 
11 Frankie's the 
very image of 

"Oh, please 
Heaven, no/' lie 
hoarsely, and 
after that they 
relapsed into 
silence again. 

But neither 
was quite so 
heavy - hearted, 
for she had seen 
in her husband's 
eyes a gleam of 
his old expres- 
sion, and he felt 
to have shifted 
some of the 
burden which 
before had almost 
crushed him. 
The old-fashioned wayside inn, the Cat 
and Mouse, at the corner of Bakestone Market 
Square j had lately had an extensive apartment 
yclept the " saloon " added to its rather 
limited accommodation for thirsty travellers ; 
but on that particular chilly, rainy evening 
the saloon was deserted, and a group of a 
dozen men, all of them regular kabituis of 
Original from 




the place, were gathered round the blazing 
fire in the vast kitchen at the back of the bar. 

And the comely, rather sad-looking woman 
who waited upon them smiled reassuringly 
when the latest comer, a young man in a 
chauffeurs livery, apologized for intruding 
on what he called her domestic privacy. 

" You're welcome, Carpenter/' she said. 
" The kitchen is more cheery than the saloon 
such a night as this." 

" Yes, and it's more home-like, too," an 
old man interposed. " I don't take to that 
new saloon a bit, missus." 

His tcne was testy, and the good-tempered 
chauffeur turned to a portly man seated in 
the most comfortable chaT the room afforded. 

" And what's the news with you, Bostock ? " 
he said, with a sly wink at the rest, which, 
unperceived by Bostock, provoked a general 
slow, bucolic grin. 

" Well, good news, my son. The kiddy's 
put on another pound of flesh." 

" Holy Moses ! Since when ? " Carpenter 
asked, as the surrounders chuckled audibly. 

" Why, since this day week. He is a 
splendid specimen, is my Samuel ! The best 
of the bunch, and that's saying a lot." 

" What do you feed him on, Bostock ? " a 
burly carter inquired. " Do you give him 
tallow candles to eat, and cod-liver oil to 
drink when he's thirsty ? " 

A wrathful gleam shone in Bostock's 
protuberant eyes. 

" You're trying to be funny, I suppose, Mr. 
Grice," he said, pompously. " My children 
have all been fed on good, wholesome stuff, 
and they've had their meals regular, and no 
stupid sweets or muck of that sort." 

" Poor little devils ! " Carpenter interrupted. 

" And they come of good stock, let me tell 
you," the irate Bostock continued, " and 
what's the result ? One of mine has taken 
his worship the Mayor's prize each time. 
And Samuel will take it to-morrow — you'll 

" Charlie Thompson's baby is a lot better 
looking than your Samuel," a young fellow 
said, with a grin. " He has got a nose on 
him, at any rate, has young Tommy, and 
your Sammy's eyes are so regular bunged up 
with fat he can scarcely see out of 'em." 

" You're a fool, Jack Murray," Bostock 
responded, loftily. " You know nothing 
about babies ; how should you, a simple 
youth like you ? But his worship, Dr. 
Preston, he's a judge, and it'll be a spanker 
that'll beat my Samuel to-morrow, and that 
spanker ain't to be found in Bakestone, and 
well you know it. Samuel comes of good 

by Google 

stock, my boy, and good stock's bound to 
come out on top. Here's his health." 

He lifted his pewter pot, but it was empty, 
and looking round to get it replenished, he 
found that the landlady had disappeared. 

"Mrs. Barclay has gone," he said; " she 
was here just now." 

" Of course she's gone," the testy old man 
Timmins cried ; "we get too much of your 
precious Samuel here, Bostock; I'm sick of 
the sound of him. Let's hope his fat won't 
squeeze every ounce of sense out of him. If 
you'd got your share of brains, which you 
haven't, you'd remember as Mrs. Barclay 
.can't stand too much talk about babies, and 
she with her little 'un and her husband drowned 
dead on the same day only three years ago." 

Bostock shook his head slowly. 

" I did forget, Mr. Timmins, I admit it; 
but just now my heart is uplifted within me. 
And it's not unnatural seeing that to-morrow 
is the day. A great day for my Samuel, and 
for his father." 

" Oh, Bostock, you are a fair treat ! " the 
youthful wag cried. " And what price his 
mother, eh ? " 

" His mother has done her duty and fol- 
lowed out my instructions to the letter," was 
the sententious reply. " She also deserves 

A roar of laughter ensued, in which the 
aged Timmins joined heartily, and Bostock, 
scarlet with anger, rose, and was half-way 
across the kitchen when the door was pushed 
open from the outside and Christopher Allan 
entered, followed immediately by Mrs. 

The man's face was flushed with exhaustion 
and hasty walking, and his voice was hoarse 
and unsteady, as flinging himself down on the 
nearest bench, he demanded to be served with 
whisky at once. 

The landlady regarded him doubtfully. 
To her experienced glance every line in Allan's 
haggard countenance proclaimed the man who 
had fallen into the drink-habit, but a minute's 
inspection convinced her that at least this 
man was not intoxicated at that moment, but 
was altogether miserable and in need of some 
restorative. Moreover there was that in his 
obvious pathetic consciousness of his own 
degradation which appealed to her womanly 
sympathies. That bedraggled, hopeless tramp 
had not always been as he was then, she was 
certain of it. His speech was superior, and 
his thin hands, though grimy enough, were 
not those of a labourer. 

She pointed to the chair by the fire, just 
vacated by the outraged Bostock. 

Original from , 



** Sit there and dry yourself, you Ye shock- 
ingly wet," she said, kindly. l£ Hadn't 
you best have your drink hot ? " 

His voice seemed to be choked in his 
throat, but he moved into the chair, looking 
gratefully at her ? and nodded 3 while leaning 
forward he held his well-formed hands to the 
comforting warmth, and at that moment 
came the first vivid flash of lightning, and a 
deafening, crackling volley of thunder, which 
sent the woman's two hands to her ears, and 
caused young Jack Murray to spring -to his 
feet with an exclamation of unabashed fear. 

Then the woman started as another sound 
mingled with the hissing of the pelting rain, 
A child's sharp scream of terror. 

" A child ! T ' she faltered, il out in this 
storm I " 

11 It's my wife and kid," the new-comer 
explained, uneasily; li they are in the porch. 
I couldn't bring the kid in here. 1 ' 

With flashing eyes the woman turned on 

" Fll have him in," she cried, " if I lose my 
licence for it. I'll have him in/ 1 

The landlady quickly returned, carrying 
on her left arm Allan's terrified child, while 

with her right she supported the trembling, 
half-fainting mother. 

Frankie's shrill screams stopped abruptly 
at the sight of his father and of the cheerful, 
blazing fire, and in a minute he was stretching 
his hands towards it, laughing with delight 
as, holding on to his father's knee p he balanced 
on his sturdy legs, his pink toes showing 
through the gaping holes in his worn-out 
shoes ; and Mrs- Barclay watched him with 
a yearning, hungry admiration in her moist 
eyes, while the assembled men grinned in 
sympathetic appreciation. 

But the boy's clothes, though ragged and 
scanty, were evidently dry, and the hostess 
turned her attention to the drooping mother. 

^ You Ye wet through I" she cried. 




d by Google 

Original from 



" I've got a change of under-things and 
another skirt, such as it is, in the bag," Nan 
answered, faintly, . 

" Come along with me, then," Mrs. Barclay 
said, .cheerily, " and while you get into dry 
things my Sally shall make you some tea and 
get some bread and 'milk for the ducky boy." 

And when the two had left Frankie mono- 
polized the entire attention, and the fascinated 
young' J$ck Murray waxed quite eloquent over 
his manifold attractions. 
, " I neyersee such a kid in all my days," he 
cried, with boyish enthusiasm. 

" Nor I, and my days add up a long sight 
more than yours, Jackie," Timmins assented, 
patronizingly. " The boy's a brave child, 
sure enough." 

" Brave ! I bet you he is brave with those 
wide-open blue eyes ; he could look a lion in 
the face," the irrepressible Murray con- 
tinued. " And see his red lips and cheeks 
and his yellow curls, just for all the world 
like that picture of ' Bubbles/ and his legs 
and his arms. Lord, think of that little, 
blown-out, pig-faced brute, Sammy Bostock, 
in comparison with that there splendid 
kiddie ! " 

A hubbub of affirmative voices arose, during 
which the doctor Mayor's chauffeur sat per- 
fectly silent, with his keen, humorous eyes 
half shut, gazing at Christopher Allan, who 
was evidently enjoying the encomiums passed 
upon his son. 

But the noise in the room suddenly abated 
as Carpenter rose and, dragging his chair 
with him, seated himself by the side of the 

44 Haven't we met before — to-day ? " he 

Allan shook his head. 

" Not likely," he said, wearily. " I've been 
tramping the road since eight o'clock this 

" Aren't you the chap who helped me when 
our motor broke down eight miles out ? " 

" Very likely. I did a job of the sort, and 
I'm spending some of your half-crown now. I 
don't recognize you, though." 

11 No. You were taken up with your busi- 
ness, and a clever job you made of it. There's 
not much you don't know about motors, 
mate, I saw that." 

" I drove a taxi in London for three years," 
Allan said, sighing. 

" And you didn't find it pay, eh ? " Car- 
penter responded, regarding him with keen 

" Oh, it paid well enough, until " 

" Until ? " 

by Google 

Allan stirred restlessly in his seat as he 
shook his head almost fiercely. 

" Oh, what's the good of talking about it ? 
I lost my licence. That's enough said, isn't 
it ? " 

" More than enough, mate. I'm sorry," 
Carpenter replied, soothingly. " I don't 
generally poke my nose into other people's 
business, but as I sat looking at you and the 
kiddie I couldn't keep from wondering." 

" Wondering ? What at ? " 

"Wondering where I'd seen your face. Not 
this, morning on the road, but years ago, and 
yet you come from London, and I've lived 
hereabouts all my life." 

" I was born a mile from Bakestone," Allan 
muttered, hoarsely. " But all my people 
are dead and gone long ago." 

Carpenter's figure suddenly stiffened and a 
gleam of mischief came into his eager eyes. 

" That's what I wanted to get at, mate," 
he cried. " I say, would you care for the 
chance of winhing fifty pounds in a compe- 
tition ? " - r 

A gasp of uncontrolled excitement burst 
from the group of listeners, but Allan only 
shrugged his shoulders. 

" You are chaffing, man," he said, drearily, 
"and I'm in no humour for it." 

" I'm not"," Carpenter went on, quickly. 
" Honest Injun, I'm speaking in downright 
earnest. Look here, mates," he went on, 
turning to the entranced listeners. " This 
chap was born within a mile of Bakestone, he 
says ; if he can prove his words what's to 
hinder his entering that kiddie there for the 
Mayor's prize of fifty pounds for the finest 
baby under three years of age whose father 
hails from a radius of three miles from Bake- 
stone ? " 

Another gasp of concentrated, almost in- 
credulous, delight broke from the bystanders, 
and then Jack Murray lost his head and, 
snatching up the astonished child, held him 
aloft in his strong young arms. 

" Look at him, the young hero ! " he cried. 
" King baby, that's what he is ! Now, what 
price Bostock's young elephant ? " 

And the ancient Timmins beat his withered 
hands upon his knees as, with tears of laughter 
running down his nose, he regarded the caper- 
ing lad, and the half-frightened, half -delighted 
child, who held on tightly with his fingers 
embedded in Murray's curly hair. 

The noise in the kitchen was at its height 
when Mrs. Barclay and Nan returned, and 
then everything had to be explained to them ; 
and Carpenter's, anxious questions elicited 
the facts that in the mackintosh bag the 

Original from 




vagrants carried with them their marriage 
lines, as well as the child's birth aftid baptismal 

Allan , now keenly on the alert, announced 
himself as the only son of Thomas Allan, 
blacksmith of a village in the local it y, on 
whose death, twelve years before, he had 
betaken himself to London, and old Timmins 
recollected clearly the sudden death of the 
blacksmith whose wife had predeceased him 
two years, and the departure of their orphan 

" And I can swear to you/* Carpenter said. 
" Why, we went to the Bakestone Grammar 
School, the two of us. So that's all right. 
Don't you make any mistake /' he went on, 
with a sly wink, li His worship the doctor 
won't make many difficulties. He'll judge 
the kiddies on their merits, and between you 

and me he's 

about fed up with 
old Bostock's 

prize progeny," 

But when the 
excitement had 
simmered down a 
little Nan ? s tired 
voice was heard. 
'* We are none 
of us decent 
enough to show 
ourselves at the 
Town Hall/' she 

s *0h, I'll lend 
you a clean blouse 
and apron, and 
find a bit of rib- 
bon for your hat/* 
Mrs, Barclay 
said, kindly/* and 
you'll sleep here, 
the lot of you, to- 
night. And a 
good brush - up 
and a clean collar 
will make Mr. 
Allan quite 

" A n d my 
Sunday tie, he's 
welcome to 
that I" Jack 
Murray inter- 
posed. ** Lord, 1 
wouldn't miss the 
sight of Bostock's 
face when that 
kiddie appears on 
the platform for a golden sovereign." 

" But the child/' Nan protested, " he's got 
nothing else besides a pair of socks and a 
ragged shirt." 

Mrs. Barclay's face grew suddenly pale, 
and for a moment she stood without speaking, 
then, lifting the little lad, and holding him 
tightly to her breast, she again went towards 
the inner door. 

" Come with me/' she said, unsteadily, to 
Nan, and when the two had gone old Timmins 
drew the cuff of his coat across his moistened 

" She's 

by Google 

gone to that bottom drawer of 
hers, you take my word for it," he said, in 
an awestruck whisper. „ 

" What bottom drawer, Mr. Timmins ? 
Jack demanded, softly. 

" The drawer she keeps all her little lad S 

Original from 



U htngs in. My granddaughter served Mrs, 
. Jarclay for a year after that there terrible 
I frowning tragedy, and she told me the missus 
::vent to that bottom drawer and cried her 
keart out every day of her life. Your boy, 
(pfr. Allan, will be clothed and comforted out 
rM the widow's bottom drawer, you'll see.' * 
For hours Christopher Allan lay wakeful by 
he side of his sleeping wife and child. His 
jrain was seething with excitement ; he had 
aken more spirit than he ought, for three or 
our of the men had insisted on standing 
,? (lasses around to drink to the success of 
'-Frankie and to the confusion of the unpopular 
Bostock, and he had eaten scarcely anything, 
dthough food had been pressed upen him. 
For a year and more Christopher Allan had 
,.. :elt it fortunate that he had no appetite, for it 
. *as seldom that he could have satisfied it, 
, whereas a few pence spent in drink meant 
, forgetfulness and temporary ease of mind, 
and if he did shorten his life, what then ? He 
- #as a rank failure, and better out of the way. 
And now the chance of fifty pounds ! For 
; a while at least he could eat and drink and be 
' merry. Fifty pounds ! He could clothe him- 
self and the wife and child decently 7 and then 
'. they would go the round of the race meetings. 

Probably this chance meant that his luck had 
changed. Anyway he'd try it, and at least 
he'd have some fun for his money. 

The Bakestone Town Hall the following 
afternoon hummed with excitement when 
Dr. Preston, the Mayor, supported by the 
members of the Corporation, appeared upon 
the platform, to be received with a hearty 
burst of applause. 

The doctor, although considered a hit of a 
crank in the agricultural district, with his 
strict ideas on eugenics, and his intolerance 
*>f slovenly, insanitary methods, was one of 
the most popular men in the town. Possessing 
some private means he spent what he made 
freely , his latest 4t fad " being to offer a prize 
of fifty pounds every alternate year for the 
finest baby born in wedlock whose father was 
a native of the locality. 

Jack Murray writhed with painfully-sup- 
pressed merriment when Joshua Bostock, 
carrying the enormous Samuel , and followed 
closely by his careworn, faded wife and 
bulky y tight-skinned, shiny- faced offspring, 
entered the hall, with a smile of anticipated 
triumph on his pompous, foolish face* 

Child after child was carried up to the 
platform and judged, but only Mrs, Bostock 





Original from 



returned to her place with anything like a 
cheery countenance, the other babies were 
completely outclassed by the colossal Samuel ; 
but presently there was heard a curious buzz 
among the audience at the back, and then a 
young woman seated in the front of the hall, 
poorly but neatly dressed, came forward and, 
mounting the three or four steps, placed in the 
arms of the astonished Dr. Preston a child at 
whose beauty he exclaimed aloud. 

There wasn't a dissentient voice among 
the judges. Frankie carried all before him, 
He was not so heavy by three or four pounds 
as the stolid, unwinking Samuel, but in every 
other reepect he was unapproachable, and 
the men in the hall roared with delight as the 
baby screamed with laughter, regarding the 
whole thing as a huge joke when Dr. Preston 
handled his sturdy limbs, and measured his 
chest ; and the women clapped enthusiasti- 
cally as, when all was over, the little fellow 
stretched out his hands, and taking the 
doctor's face between them, pulled it down 
and kissed him on the lips. 

There was another convivial gathering that 
evening at the Cat and Mouse, and Frankie 
was made the excuse for rather reckless 
libations ; but Christopher Allan was, it 
was considered, strangely silent and depressed 
in the exhilarating circumstances. 

He would not admit it to anyone, but Allan 
felt bitterly disappointed ; he had anticipated 
confidently the pleasure of spending at least a 
small portion of that fifty pounds in standing 
treat lavishly all round, even to the extent of 
half-a-dozen bottles of Mrs. Barclay's best 
champagne ; but all. he had been told at the 
Town Hall after the public announcement of 
Frankie's victory (which was received with 
frantic applause) was that Dr. Preston would 
expect to see him at his own private residence 
at ten o'clock the following morning. 

Mrs. Barclay had again offered them hospi- 
tality for the night, but it fretted Allan sorely 
that he must increase his obligations to her, 
even though in a few hours he would be able 
to compensate her generously. 

Dr. Preston received Allan kindly enough, 
but his genial face grew grave and almost 
stern as he gazed earnestly at the man before 

As on the preceding afternoon, Allan pre- 
sented a comparatively decent appearance, 
for his ragged clothes had been brushed and 
cleaned and mended, and his cracked boots 
blacked and polished ; but the doctor's keen 
eyes detected at once drink and its consequent 
demoralization in every line of what should 
have been a handsome face, and in the slouch- 

by Google 

ing pose of what had been originally a well- 
knit figure. But presently the sternness in 
his eyes softened, for there was an indefinable 
something about this wreck of a man who 
stood with bent head before him which aroused 
his sympathy, and his tone was almost gentle 
as he motioned him to a chair. 

" I congratulate you," he commenced. 
" That's a splendid little lad of yours, Mr. 
Allan. He does you and your wife the greatest 

Allan emitted a short, harsh laugh. 

" My wife, perhaps," he said. "She's 
many times gone hungry that the kid might 
eat his fill. He's not got much to thank me 
for. It's the other way about, it seems to 

" What do you mean, man ? " 

Allan glanced up, and then averted his 
eyes quickly under the doctor's shrewd, 
penetrating glance. 

" Why, about this fifty pounds. Frankie's 
doing more for me than I ever did for him, I'm 

Dr. Preston hesitated a moment before he 

" You understand about this fifty pounds, 
I suppose ? " he asked. " It has been ex- 
plained to you ? " 

" No, nothing has been explained beyond 
the fact of the prize being offered," Allan 
answered, almost testily. He wanted to end 
the interview ; the doctor's penetrating gaze 
distressed him. 

Dr. Preston rose, and, walking to the 
mantel, turned his back on his visitor. 

" Mr. Allan," he said, slowly and distinctly, 
" this fifty pounds is for your child's benefit. 
It will be placed in the bank here to his credit 
by me at noon to-day, and there it will remain, 
accumulating to some extent, until he attains 
his sixteenth birthday. On that day you, or 
someone appointed by you, will have the power 
to withdraw the sum on satisfying me, or my 
executors, that it can be expended in appren- 
ticing the lad, or starting him in some profit- 
able career." 

For a moment there was complete silence, 
and then Allan, breathing short, stumbled 
to his feet, and, scarcely trusting himself to 
speak, muttered a hoarse " Good morning " 
and turned towards the door. 

" Stay one minute," Dr. Preston said, 
pitifully. He read the truth, and his heart 
ached over this mournful spectacle of de- 
graded, hopeless manhood. 

" Take this certificate with you," he con- 
tinued, thrusting a roll of stiff paper into the 
other's nerveless, trembling hand. " Your 

Original from 



wife will like to have it. And remember this, 
Allan/' he went on, laying his hand on the 
vagrant's shoulder, unconsciously raising his 
voice- — " remember this. That child of yours 
is a splendid fellow. On you rests the respon- 
sibility of his future. He is in every way well 
armed for the fight. Physically perfect and 
markedly intelligent, but he needs your help 
now, and God forgive you if you blight this 
promising life." 

Two hours later the warm June sun shone 
down on Christopher Allan and his wife and 
child, as they rested in a field two miles out of 
Bakestone. The boy had walked the distance, 
and was merry and entirely happy in the 
possession of a Teddy bear, presented to him 
by the admiring Jack Murray, whose eyes 
were moist as he took leave of the child, and 
of a currant-bun at which he nibbled con- 
tentedly. But he no longer wore the pretty 
clothes with which he had been provided the 
day before, and again his rosy toes showed 
through the gaps in his shoes. 

The man and woman looked fagged and 
weary. Both were suffering from the inevit- 
able reaction following a day of excitement, 
and the girl's face wore a frown as she 
regarded her husband. 

Why had he not allowed Frankie to keep the 
things Mrs. Barclay was so eager to give ? 
He had gone away with scarcely a " Thank 
you " to all those good, kind folk, and he had 
turned from Carpenter, the doctor's chauffeur, 
when he had held out his hand in farewell. 
He cared neither for wife nor child ; he had 
walked farther in front of her than ever, and 
when Frankie had run on and had caught at 
his hand he had shaken him off roughly. 

And now what was before them ? Tramp, 
tramp, tramp, with the hopeless spectacle of 
the bent, slouching figure going on in front of 
her, with never a kind word, wanting food and 

And still he did not speak, but he drew his 
breath with difficulty, and his face was pale 
and drawn, and in his eyes she might have 
seen, if her heart had not been so hardened 
against him, an almost wild despair. Pre- 
sently she leant forward, and snatching at 
the bag, which lay on the ground between 
them, drew from it the certificate. Opening 
it she held it up with a mirthless laugh. 

" Mrs. Barclay said we ought to have it 
framed and hang it up in our parlour," she 
said, bitterly. " Our parlour ! Heaven help 
us ! Look at it, Chris, and say something. 
can't you ? " 

He raised his haggard eyes and stared at 
the paper gleaming in the sun, and the child, 

Vol. xlviiL-14, 

Digitized by LjOOgle 

with his golden curls glistening, pointed at it 
and laughed aloud. 

And then of a sudden with a stifled cry .the 
man fell over on his side, and great, tearing 
sobs broke from him as he covered his face. 

" Oh, God ! " he moaned, " if I were only 
different. But it is too late. Oh, if I could 
only do something." 

With a scared face the woman bent over him. 

" Chris," she whispered. " Oh, Chris ! it 
can't be too late, and you a clever man when 
the drink's not in you. Mr. Carpenter, he 
said so. Oh, Chris ! oh, Chris ! " 

For a few minutes Allan sobbed his heart 
out, and then the storm of passionate emotion 
passed, and he lay quiet and motionless. 

The woman, for once respecting his mood, 
did not speak to him, but busied herself in 
comforting and reassuring the frightened 
child, and presently Allan rose slowly, and 
averting his face, walked unsteadily towards 
the gate of the field, 

" Stay here," he gasped. " Nan, however 
long I am, stay here until I come back." 

And the girl, half-scared, half -comforted, 
drew the child into the shade of the tall hedge 
and, clasping him tightly to her, rested her 
head upon the bag and fell asleep. 

Nan was still sleeping when, after three 
hours' absence, Christopher Allan laid his 
hand gently upon her shoulder. She started 
awake with a cry, but her eyes lighted up 
with an undefined hope as they met her 
husband's. Allan's face was very grave, but 
his gaze was direct and unwavering, and on 
his lips was a pathetic smile. 

" I have got work, Nan," he said. " I am 
going to turn over a new leaf. Carpenter has 
found me a good job. He remembers my 
case in the papers and that I was acquitted 
of manslaughter by the coroner's jury. He 
always felt that it was a pure accident, he 
says. Come, Nan, you shall have a parlour 
to hang that certificate in before you're a 
week older." 

He lifted Frankie in his arms, and uncover- 
ing his own head, placed his hand upon the; 
child's golden curls. 

" I am responsible for his future," he said, 
almost inaudibly, " and God forgive me if I 
blight his life." 

The words were unfamiliar to the awestruck 
woman, but in the man's ears they had rung 
for hours, torturing him to the verge of madness. 

And then Christopher Allan and Nan 
passed slowly out of the field together, and 
now hand in hand she walked by his side 
between the flowering hedges towards a 
better and a brighter life. 
\jx 1 q 1 n d 1 rrorn 



Illustrated fcy Thomaa Somerf leW 

ISHING is a good enough 
sport, and has its strong 
points for one whose pen 
strays at times in the direc- 
tion of fiction. I fish, in 
a sporting sort of way, in a 
pretty little river which flows 
past my garden. J Tis well 'tis so, for a ssilmon 
river would not tempt me to walk far for my 
sport, and not for the chance of hooking a 
whale would I purchase a railway ticket on 
angling solely bent. There is a natty little 
platform by the riverside within a dozen 
yards of my drawing-room window which 
does well enough for me. On it I place one 
deck-chair, one tobacco-jar, two good pipes 
in case of accident, sundry boxes of matches, 
two or three favourite books, my good dog 
Don, and, if I mean to fish for long, I put a 
cushion in the deck-chair. Nothing to drink 
goes on my platform — it is a sad failing to 
put drink there — a great and fundamental 
error which it pains me to see so frequently 
committed by those who call themselves 
sportsmen and anglers. Drink, I repeat, 
has no place on my platform— I sink it in a 
tight, screw-stoppered bottle in the stream J 
secured by a line made fast to the most con- 
venient angle of the arm of my deck-chair. 

by Google 

That angle has to be studied with extreme 
care. When it is as it should be, the cord can 
be reached without moving from that ideal 
loll in a deck-chair which is an acquired art, 
A very slight puJl brings the bottle up > and 
how deliciously cool the — er — lemonade is 
when river-stored like this ! 

Let me see, now ; there is something else. 
Yes, of course, I have a rod — dnly one. There 
is a line on the rod, also a float, and one small 
hook, usually at the farthest extremity of the 
linej but occasionally lapped round a couple 
of shot, which keep the float from being too 
assertive. My float is a nice, quiet grey 
quill, and does not bob about too much. 
Worms I loathe — paste or bread-crust will 
not stand more than one good bite without 
coming off the hook. Gentles are better, 
although wriggling little beasts at their best, 
and having trained mine into cleanly habits 
in a tray of sand, I impale quite a number 
on the hook, swing them into the water, and 
drop the butt of the rod on a special rest I 
have designed within ct lolling '* reach of my 
right hand. There I sit and smoke and read, 
and if I chance to glance from my book and 
see my float strangely moved by some unseen 
force I tilt up the rod and secure a gudgeon— 
every time a gudgeon — and nothing but a 

I hold the gudgeon championship of the 
river, and am supremely content. I am pre- 
pared to back myself against all comers to 
catch fewer gudgeon in more time than any 
other fisherman in the county, and I find the 
sport most enjoyable. The bites are rather 
• Original from 




a nuisance , but I manage fairly well on a 
system of my own* When I turn a page of 
my book I look at the float, and when I have 
read three chapters I haul up the line to see 
if there is any bait left. I have in this manner 
caught gudgeon, small ones, at the end of the 
third chapter, but my specimen fish have all 
been taken at the turn of the page. I have 
tried to improve on this plan, but without 
much success so fan Still, I live in hopes — 
Don is a very sensible dog, and I think I may 
yet train him to growl when I have a bite. 

AH went well with my fishing until my 
friend Freddy came to stay with me, He is, 
I should say, one of the most skilful kill-sports 
that ever lived. There is about thirteen stone 
of him— twelve 
stone seven or 
soof a thorough 
sportsman and 
the rest a 
joyous boy who 
refuses to 
grow up* In 
strange lands 
he has chased 
beasts ; he 
has had his 
chickens looted 
by a python 
and has 
brought up a 
baby leopard 
by hand on 
milk. He makes 
his centuries at 
cricket and bil- 
liards, plays 
football more 
than passably 
well in his 
"golf- age/' 
and once 
stunned a 
nigger by hit- 
ting him on 
the head with 
his bare fist. He 
is the first man 
I should pick to have with me in a tight corner, 
and the last I want to go fishing with, His 
remarks concerning my beautifully-organized 
apparatus for the slaughter of gudgeon were 
most scornful and unkind. There were good 
feh in the river , he said, and he meant to 
have them out of it, not by lying in wait for 
them as I did, but by energetic and skilful 

Digitized by ^OOgle 


methods calculated, with normal luck T to 
drive the local fishmonger out of business, 
unless he cared to combine with my friend. 

I said nothing much, but, being gifted 
with a strength of character which shines at 
its brightest and best when I have resolved 
not to exert myself, I steadfastly refused to 
aid and abet him in his manifold schemes 
for depopulating the river of its rightful 
inhabitants , and sat firmly in my deck-cr\air 
catching gudgeon in my own truly sporting 
fashion, I knew there were good fish in the 
river, for I had seen them many a time and 
oft Very pretty they looked, too, swimming 
past my float on a fine, bright morning. It 
was good to gaze lazily down on their steel- 
blue backs, and 
to see a sudden 
shimmer of 
silver as one 
turned to seize 
worth eating. 
Roach, I be- 
lieve they were, 
but I am not 
quite sure 
about it. They 
never meddled 
'With my bait, 
or gave me the 
least trouble in 
return for the 
stately swim 
they delighted 
me w p ith. 

evening I re- 
warded them 
with crusts of 
bread, which 
scarce left my 
hand before 
they were 
vigorously by 
shoals of dace 
and small fry, 
breaking the 
surface of the 
water into 
myriads of dimpling, baby wavelets and 
oily little circles as they sported cease- 
lessly with the floating crusts. But when 
the bread had drifted a good score feet 
from me , away into the deep shadows 
beneath the willows, so far away that in the 
fading light the crusts became mere light 
blurs on the dark surface of the river, then a 




sharp and sudden swirl and a goodly knock 

which sent the crust half out of water told 

of the big ones getting to work. Hither ana 

thither rocked the ever-diminishing crust, 

sometimes nearly forced clear in air t then 

nearly sucked under, and all the while darting 

about like a spinning water-beetle as the 

snouts of the hungry 

fish struck it this way 

and that. Sometimes 

a sportive fish would 

oblige with a splendid 

splashy leaping clean 

out of the water and 

descending with a flop 

which brought the 

circling wavelets to my 

feet and scared a busy 

water-rat out of his 

straight swim from 

bank to bank. 

In very truth, a 
goodly and pleasing 
scene on a calm sum- 
mer evening, and at 
times , when the fish 
were bold ,1 got toknow 

them by sight. Two stood out from the rest 
— roach , well over a pound apiece , certainly, 
and fully two pounds each if hooked and lost* 
One had a scar across his shapely back, 
doubtless a relic of a long- past encounter with 
the teeth of a pike — for there are pi key parts 
in my river. Him I named Willie, his com- 
panion William , and, when very still , 1 have 
seen the pair poise in crystal amidstream 
scarce six feet from my chair, while the sun at 
noon fell hot on the glinting river. With half- 
closed eyes I have watched them floating 
lazily among the tangled stems of a bed ol 
water-lilies under the far bank, or have seen 
them hang as if suspended from a broad green 
leaf overhead ; and more than once I have 
seen nothing except a section of a reddish tail 
breaking the still surface between the plants 
in the quiet middle of the bed. 

In time I grew quite friendly with that 
handsome pair — friendly in spirit, that is ; 
they were far too wary to permit friendship 
in the flesh, or, rather, fish. Still, I liked to 
p-Tsuade myself that they were a little less 
shy with me than with strangers, just a shade 
slower with that whisk of the tail and sinuous 
twist of the body which sped them into watery 
oblivion like a flash when they became aware 
that a pair of human optics were turned in 
their direction- Before Freddy came I had 
hopes — faint, 'tis true, but yet hopes— of 
training those fish to sport boldly and feed 



without fear whenever I bade them come forth 
and show themselves — but this was not 
Freddy's ideal, 

A journey to town saw him return iaden 
with rods ? reels, lines f hooks, floats, landing- 
nets, bait^cans, and a quantity of other 
angling outfit, in all, I should say, enough to 

start a useful and 
ambitious fishing-club. 
From daybreak till 
dark he fished with 
tremendous energy 
every inch of the river 
within a mile each way 
of my house 3 respect- 
ing only the few square 
feet where dangled my 
gudgeon lure. So 
vigorously did he dig 
for worms that I was 
able to save two whole 
days' wages which 
otherwise would have 
gone into the pocket 
of the horticultural 
expert who tends my 
fair domain for three 
shillings a day and his beer money. 

The local butcher grew quite angry with 
Freddy- Rightly, and with just indignation, 
did the worthy tradesman resent the repeated 
insinuation that he " must have some gentles 
about the place somewhere," " Just as if I 
stock 'ern, sir/ " he protested to me, as he 
brought the flat of his knife down smack on 
a buzzing bluebottle and thereby squashed 
another of Freddy's fond hopes. Taking pity 
on him, I lent Freddy a few gentles, and did 
not press the matter of a visible rise in our 
flour and bread bill, which my wife unhesi- 
tatingly attributed to Freddy's liberality in 
the matter of bait in general and ground-bait 
in particular. Cheese, too, I learned, had gone 
in chunks for weird baits, and honey had been 
successfully begged to make a special brand 
of paste deadly enough to kill fish at a mile. 
But a stand had been made when it came to 
broaching cherished stores of bottled fruit to 
provide cherries for chub, and Freddy had 
retired discomfited* 

For days Freddy fished without making 
any decided impression on the number of fish 
in the river, and I began to think he would 
admit the superiority of my method after all. 
The fish he caught were small—" not sizable " 
is, I think, the correct technical term — and, 
except one or two he reserved for live bait, 
the remainder of his catch was promptly 
returned to the river. Returned with care, 
Original from 




*oo, for dear old Freddy never gave needless 
pain to any living thing, and it was something 
of a sight to see his strong, muscular fingers 
grasping firmly yet gently a two-inch roachlet 
as, more in sorrow than in anger, Freddy 
withdrew the hook as gently and carefully as a 
man might pull a splinter from under his own 
thumb-nail. But the skill of the man was 
merely latent, just waiting for a chance 
to show itself. This came one evening 
when, rod in hand, he paused to dwell with 
heavy comment on my beloved gudgeonry. 
Feeding time was due, and without a 
thought of evil I cast forth my crusts as 
usual to feed my multitude of fishes. 

Freddy gazed eagerly as the crusts disap- 
peared. He was thinking — " plotting " would 
be a better word — " diabolically " the only 
word to fol- 
low — and 
the very 
his fell 




3 y Google 

scheme at work. It meant 
making a path between two 
flower-beds in front of the 
house, climbing a fence deco- 
rated with barbed wire, and 
extemporizing an amazingly 
insecure and uncomfortable 
perch on the knotty 
poll of an ancient 
willow which leaned 
over the water. 
From this vantage- 
point, armed with 
a fly -rod and the 
finest of tackle, 
Freddy dabbled 
cubes of dry crust 
on the surface as * 
evening fell. The ^~ 
tiniest of hooks ever 

seen lay buried in those tempting iragments of 
honest loaf, and from, my seat I saw a line oft 
tightened, a rod too seldom straight, and heard 
the sullen splash of the landing-net oft repeated, 
realizing the while that, all unwittingly, I was 
in bitter truth an accessory before the fact. 

" Something like sport at last," said Freddy, 
as he displayed a full score of roach and dace, 
real beauties, with deep green backs, fins tinged 
with crimson, and glistening silver sides — but 
all too stiff in death for my liking. Evening 
after evening he repeated his skilful angling 
with varying success, but never without " bag- 
ging a few," as he expressed it. Once, and the 
occasion filled me with unholy joy, the gnats 
got hold of Freddy, and, in spite of language 
which set a pensioned hunter in the meadow 
opposite galloping madly, the gnats won and 
fairly drove Freddy from his tree for that even- 
ing. But he returned smeared with stinking stuff 




to keep off the gnats, and took his toll of my 
finny friends with unrelenting skill and 
success. No longer did I cast my bread upon 
the waters as the sun sank low, but sat silent 
and glum, hoping the tree would fall into the 
river. The climax came late one evening, 
when j just as I was drawing the final puffs 
from my last pipe for the night, a mighty 
shout arose from Freddy. 

41 Come quickly, man ! " he cried. " Quirk, 
quick ! M he repeated, insistently, his voice 
quivering with su ppressed excitement. : * V ve 
got the daddy roach of the river. I'll play 
him up into the shallows on the left near the 
ford. You get the net under htm. Come on ; 
look alive 1 Be quick ; I cannot play him all 
night ! " 

He might have played 
that fish until the crack 
of doom but for a sud- 
den thought which made 
me spring from my chair 
so quickly that Don flew 
after me with a sharp bark, 
wondering what mischief it 
could be which had stirred 
his master to such un- 
wonted activity. Quicker 
than I had moved for years } 
I dashed tp the foot of 
the tree j ran on a couple of 
steps, and plunged into the 
water up to my knees, 
grabbing the landing-net as 
I ran. In the dim after- 
glow I saw a line, thin as 
a spider's thread, stretched 
taut away to my left, and 
at the end something big 
was flopping and squirming in little more 
than a foot of water. On I splashed through 
the running stream, and as the fish turned I 
saw how big it was, and I also saw a familiar 
scar across its struggling form. That was 
Willie, poor thing, fighting for dear life at 
the end of that line. I made a vicious jab 
with the landing-net, and felt a slight check 
as the iron struck the light gut cast well above 
the fish. Then an empty line, shattered and 
sundered, flew upward, a bent rod straight- 
ened, and the language from that tree simply 
sizzled past me and made the water feel dis- 
tinctly warm around my legs. Never mind, 
Willie flopped away to safety all right. 

But I never saw him or William again, 
and it seemed to me as if the passing shoals 


of roach were fewer and swam with set pur- 
pose farther from my platform. Even my 
gudgeon-fishing lost its elusive charm, for I 
was never free from the haunting fear that 
Freddy would capture Willie or William, 
perhaps both, when I was too far away to 
save. Thus did Freddy's skill kill my suort. 
He does not live with me now, but if he returns 
again any fishing time I mean to festoon that 
tree with barbed wire and decorate it with 
broken glass and steel spikes. If Willie 
and William return I will cut that tree 
down without mercy, in case Freddy or some 
other skilful angler should use it again, in 
spite of barb, glass, and spike, as a vantage- 
point from which to make that skilful sport 
which kills my sport. 

by Google 

Original from 



ETER had been exceedingly 
naughty ; there is no doubt 
about that. AH day his bad- 
ness went on getting worse 
and worse j as it does if you 
don't try to stop it at first. 
He began by throwing Gwen's 
doll into the bath, and he ended by biting 
Nurse's hand when she tried to give him a 
powder in a spoonful of jam. 

Peter knew quite well that the powder did 
not taste nearly bad enough for a big boy of 
ten to make a fuss about. All the same, he 
bit Nurse and knocked the spoon out of her 
hand, so that the jam spoilt her clean apron. 
Nurse did not say much, but she looked as 
though she could if she wished , which always 
makes one feel uncomfortable, 

'* Very well, Master Peter," she remarked. 
" I sha'n't trouble to give you another powder. 
You may just have as good a night as you 

She finished putting Peter to bed without 
once speaking, and left him tucked up tightly, 
with a night-light burning in the wash-basin 
and throwing a round patch of light on the 

Digitized by GOOQ I C 

Illustrated by 

H. R. Millar. 

Peter ought to have been quite comfortable, 
but somehow he wasn't. He felt naughty 
inside and outside and altogether ; hot and 
dried-up and horrid. He wanted a drink out 
of the water -hot tit ■„ but it was too much 
bother to get it, and he felt sure that Nurse 
would be more offended than ever if he called 
her. First he threw off the bedclothes, then 
he pulled them up again- Next he turned 
towards the window, then he rolled over, 
facing the door, which was open just a little, ( 

Something bobbed round it, quick in and 
quick out, something which was round and 
just about the shape and size of a kitten's 

Peter rubbed his eyes and stared ; he was 
really not quite sure for a minute that he 
had seen anything at all. He waited and 
waited, until his eyelids were quite tired 
and began to shut by themselves. And sud- 
denly underneath the edges of them he saw 
something for certain, 

A head peeped slowly round the door, a 
body followed it, and a tiny man came tiptoe- 
ing across the floor towards Peter's bed. 

He was about a foot high and altogether 
round. His head was like one ball, and his 
body a bigger one. He had round, sticking- 
out ears, and his eyes and his nose and his 
mouth were all round too. He was dressed 
in bright yellow clothes, which fitted him as 
tightly as a sausage-skin, and he wore a little 
yellow cap. 

The tiny man came across the floor , stepping 
very softly on the tips of his yellow toes, and he 
jumped straight up on to the chair by the bed, 
so that he was just on a level with Peter's face, 




All this time the little boy kept as still as a 
mouse, even holding his breath, because he 
did not want to frighten the queer creature 
away. He only peeped under his eyelashes 
to see what happened. 

The round man came quite close to Peter, 
grinning so widely that the corners of his 
mouth were out of sight behind his head. 
Then he pulled out a tiny sword, with the 
sharpest of sharp points, and Peter thought 
it was time to open his eyes wide. 
" What do you want ? " he asked. 
The little man nearly fell off the chair in 
his surprise. 

" Oh, you're awake ! " he said, with great 
disgust, in a squeaky voice. " What a pity ! 
What a dreadful pity ! " 

He stamped both his little feet angrily, and 
then turned to jump down. But Peter sat 
up in bed, very wide awake indeed. 
" Why is it a pity ? " he asked. 
" Because it doesn't give me a chance/' 
said the tiny man, pettishly. " You ought 
to have been asleep. What do you think I 
am here f or ? " 

" I don't know a bit," said Peter, which 
was quite true. 

" And I'm not going to tell you ! " said the 
round man, very crossly. " Good-bye. Per- 
haps I shall come back after you are asleep." 
" Then I sha'n't see you," Peter said. 
" No ; you'll only feel me. Ha-ha-ha ! " 
The little man chuckled and slid down the 
chair-leg to the floor. 

But Peter was determined that he should 
not go like that, and he jumped out of bed 
in a great hurry. 

"Oh, please tell me why you came and 
what your name is ? " he begged. " I — I 
won't let you go till you say." 

The round man stopped short, looking up 
at Peter with his round head on one side. 

" Really, you are most annoying ! " he 
grumbled. " My name is Fancy, if you want 
to know, and I am a very busy person. 
There's a great deal of work to be done 
to-night, and I can't waste time here, especially 
as you've no right to be awake at all. But 
I'll tell you what : you can come with me 
on my rounds — that will teach you a lesson 
or two, I expect." 
" I'd love to ! " cried Peter. 
" Wotdd you ? " Fancy said, and somehow 
Peter did not feel quite so sure. But of course 
he could not show that he was rather frightened 
before such a little tiny man as that. 

" It's going to be a lot of trouble to me," 
Fancy grumbled. " You're much too big, for 
one thing." 

by Google 

" Well, I can't help that," Peter said. 
" Yes, you can ! " snapped the little man. 
" Don't be so silly ! Just shut your eyes and 
say ' I want to be smaller ' seven times over, 
backwards, without taking breath. Now — 
one, two, three — go ! " 

Peter managed to do it at last, but just try 
it yourself and see how difficult it is. He 
opened his eyes and found himself exactly 
the same height as Fancy. It was so funny 
to see all the furniture high above his head 
that he would have liked to wait, but the little 
man was in a tremendous hurry. 

" Come along, and don't keep me here ! " 
he cried. " Quick, up the chimney ! " 

Before Peter had time to think that it 
would be difficult they were scrambling up the 
bars of the grate on to the hob, where there 
was just room for them to stand. 

" Do exactly like me," the little man said. 

" Hold your breath — so — and " As he 

spoke he shot straight up the chimney, so 
that the rest of his sentence came from far 
away in the distance. " Follow me — so ! " 

Peter stood up straight, just as the other 
had done, and up he shot through the chimney, 
like a pea through a pea-shooter. He had no 
time to be frightened before he found himself 
at the top, sitting on the edge of the chimney- 
pot with Fancy beside him. 

All round him were roofs and roofs and roofs 
— those of his own house and all the other 
houses in the street. It was almost as light 
as day, because the moon was full, and there 
on the tiles beside them a horse was pawing 
and champing. 

It was coal-black, with a long, flowing mane 
and tail, and the insides of its nostrils were 
very red. 

" Whoa, my beauty ! " Fancy cried, and 
then, just as he was going to jump on to its 
back, he stopped, looking very cross. " Oh, 
bother, I suppose I must call one for you ! " 
he said, and blew a little whistle five times. 

" Once for a taxi, twice for a hansom, three 
times for a four-wheeler, four for an aeroplane, 
five for a Nightmare — that's how it goes now," 
he remarked, as another coal-black horse 
came galloping over the house-tops. 

" Are these Nightmares, then ? " Peter 
asked, doubtfully. 

" Of course they are ! " the little man 
answered. " What else do you suppose one 
rides on at night ? Get up — quick ! " 

And Peter was obliged to clamber up and 
hold on as best he could. 

Away they went, clatter-clatter over the 
tiles, so fast that it quite took away the little 
boy's breath. 

Original from 



ir S 

u Where are we going ? T * he managed to 
gasp at last, 

'" Let me sec " Fancy said, pulling out 

a little note-book. " What are my appoint- 
ments for to-night ? Master Peter Percival 
—that's you. Master Thomas Simpson, 
Number one hundred and fifty-three, Elgin 
Park Squarej that's the next — and here we 
are ! " 

As he spoke, he pulled up the Nightmare 
beside a high chimney-stack and clambered 
up to the edge of a pot, 
followed by Peter, Down 
he dived , and the little 
boy followed, for funnily 
enough he had left off being 
frightened by now. 

to imagine. Fancy hopped up on to the bed, 
and began reading out of his little note- book. 
" ' Master Thomas Simpson hit his little 
brother and made his nose bleed, kicked the 
cat, and ate two pounds of mixed peel, which 
he stole from the store-cupboard, for his 
supper, Went to bed without saying that he 
was sorry/ Aha, my young friend, there's 
no mistake here ! You'll be sorry before IVe 
done with you, I'll give you bad dreams ! 
You shall have a Nightmare ! Come on, my 
beauty ! " 

Down the chimney the 
black horse rattled and 
clattered, and stood paw- 
ing at the blue tiles. Then 
Fancy mounted on its back 
and k'gan riding bat k- 


In the fireplace Peter was nearly smothered 
in a pile of those curly shavings which people 
sometimes put into grates in the summer. 
When he managed to crawl out, he found 
himself in a splendidly-furnished bedroom, 
where a little boy of about his own age was 

He was lying on his back, snoring, with his 
mouth wide open, and, even in his sleep, he 
looked about as disagreeable as it is possible 

V.,. „vUi -.5. 

wards and forwards, up and clown, and to 
and fro over the little boy who lay in bed. 

The unfortunate Master Thomas Simpson 
groaned and muttered and turned and twisted, 
but the more he struggled the more Fancy 
laughed and shouted and prodded him with 
his sharp little sword. 

At last the miserable little boy opened his 
eyes with a great howl of pain, and at the 
same instant Fancy jumped down off the bed 




and caught Peter's hand* " Come on ! " he 
cried, 4£ That job's done ! " 

Next moment all three of them were on the 
roof once more, quite out of breath with 
haste, although Fancy was chuckling and 
laughing as though he would never stop, 

" Now do you understand what my business 
is ? u he asked. 

M I suppose you give bad dreams/' Peter 

il Yes ; bad dreams and nightmares and 
everything that is unpleasant to all the boys 
and girls who deserve them ! If they go to 
bed without saying they're sorry, you set 
what they have to expect. Oh, it's just us 
well that you were awake, after being so 
naughty all day, I can tell you ! " 

" But if they're sorry before they go tu 
sleepj you can't do anything, can 
you ? " Peter asked , anxiously. 

" No, I can't — and very disap- 
pointing that is ! I miss a lot of 
fun because children are so apt to 
get good at bedtime. Now, where's 
our next appointment ? * Pollie 
Perkins, Tiger Lane ' — come along ! " 

Away they clattered again, faster 
and faster. Sometimes the Night- 
mares took huge leaps from house- 
top to house-top, sometimes they 
raced along on the edges of parapets, 
so that Peter could look down into 
the streets far below. The noise of 
motors and trams and people all 
talking together came up to them, 
but quite faintly, because the houses 
were so very high* They were a long 
way from Peter's home now, and all 
around them were hundreds and 
hundreds of telegraph and telephone 
wires, humming and buzzing in 
the wind j with a noise rather like an organ. 

Then the houses began to get lower and the 
streets much darker and quieter. In the 
darkest and quietest of them all Fancy pulled 
up his Nightmare, before an attic window. 

" Here we are ! w he cried, u This is where 
Pollie Perkins lives. Let me see ; * Drank the 
baby's milk, and told her mother it was the 
cat. Pulled the baby's hair because it cried, 
and went to bed without saying she was sorry,' 
Aha ! Here's a bad, wicked girl ! She shall 
have the worst dreams I can give her. We'll 
go in by the window this time," 

It was easy enough to do that, because 
almost all the panes were broken and just 
stuffed up with pieces of dirty rag. Inside, 
it was quite a different room from Master 
Thomas Simpson's, Instead of a lovely soft 

Digitized by Ij* 

carpet 3 there were only bare boards, with 
black bee ties scuttling to and fro, and the only 
beds were two piles of straw and rags, with a 
woman lying on one and a little girl on the 
other. Fancy went creeping towards her 
on the very tips of his yellow toes, and 
Peter followed him. 
She was very little 
and pale, and her 
face was all grimy 
with tears , which 
had made w e t 
patches on the rags 
under her cheek, so 
it was easy to see 
that she had cried 
herself to sleep. 
As Fancy began 

to pull out his horrid little 
sword, she sobbed as 
though she were very un- 
happy, and Peter simply 
could not keep quiet. 

"Oh, don't give her bad 
dreams I " he t:i led, "I'm 
sure she is sorry ! " 

" I don't care about that ! " the little 
round man answered, " My only business is 
that she was very naughty yesterday and that 
she went to sleep without saying that she was 
sorry. Nothing else matters ! " 

4t I do think you're horrid 1" Peter cried, 
indignantly, f4 Wouldn't you rather people 
were sorry ? M 

11 0h ? dear, no ! " Fancy answered, w I 
should have nothing to do then, except wait 




for children who had been greedy over supper, 
and think how dull that would be ! Now, 
please don't waste any more of my precious 
time/ 1 

But Peter could bear no more* He clam- 
bered up on to the pile of rags and began to 

and prodded Peter with his sword, the little 
boy took no notice. He seized a lock of the 
girl's hair and pulled it with all his strength, 
so that at last she opened her eyes and blinked 
about her; And almost directly she began to 
cry again, 

shake the little girl by the 
shoulder with all his might 
and main. 

" Wake up 1 " he cried. 

11 Oh, do wake up and say 

you* re sorry ! " 

It was then that Peter discovered what a 

bother it was to have grown so very small. 

He could scarcely make any more noise than 

a mouse f and the little girl did not seem to 

feel his tugs at alL And all the time Fancy 

was dancing up and down beside him in a 

perfect fury, 

" How dare you interfere ! ff he cried. u Oh, 
you'll be sorry for this ! n 
But, although he screamed and shouted 

Digitized by GoO^Ic 


14 Oh , dear, oh, dear ! " she whispered. " 1 
must tell mother I'm sorry ! " 

She scrambled up, almost knocking Peter 
down in her haste j and ran across the room to 
the other pile of rags. 

u Do wake up, mother ! " she sobbed, and 
the woman sat up at once, whilst the little 
girl went on speaking, " I was that naughty, 
an' I couldn't go to sleep comfortable till I'd 
told you. I did take baby's milk, an' I hit 
*im when 'e cried ; but I was that 'ungry ! 
Oh, I'm sorry. I won't do it £gain ! " 

11 That's my good Pollie ! " the woman said, 
lovingly, and she put both her arms round the 
little girl. " There — there ; It's all right now, 
dearie. You just cuddle clown and go to 
sleep with mother ! M 

Peter had quite forgotten everything else 
in watching them, but now a voice from the 
window startled him. 

i( Good-bye, my interfering young friend ! 
You may just find your own way home ! " 
Original from 




The little boy turned round in time to see 
Fancy's yellow legs disappearing over the 

Peter ran to the window and scrambled 
out on Co the leads^ but there was not the 
faintest sign to be seen of the little round 
man or the two Nightmares ; they had 
vanished absolutely and entirely. 

So there was poor Pete^, all alone upon the 
roofs in the middle of 
the night, miles and 
miles from his own 
home, and with not 
the tiniest idea how 
to get there. 

It would have been 
bad enough to be so 
far away, down in the 
streets below, with 
people to talk to \ 
but here, up on the 
roofs j which all 
looked exactly alike 
—well, I don't know 
what you think, but I 
really cannot imagine 
anything much 

Peter stumbled 
along in the rain- 
water gutter, crying. 
He was quite a brave 
boy in ordinary day- 
light , but now there 
seemed to be nothing 
else to do. Perhaps 
it was because he 
was so unordinarily 

Suddenly a voice spoke out of a pipe which 

he was just passing, and .startled hirn so much 

that he nearly fell off tin mot. ' Why are 

you making that horrible now: ? ' : it said. 

1 And what do you want here ? " 

" Please j I only want to get home/' Peter 

'* Well, / don't know where your home is ! " 
the voice answered, angrily. M Go away at 
once—youVe waking the children. It's easy 
to see you don't know what it is to be a 
sparrow with four babies all crying for food 
at once, the first thing in the morning. Go 
away, or I'll come out and peck you ! 

And Peter ran on as fast as he could, feeling 
more miserable than ever- 

liut worse was to come. 

He was just sliding down a sloping roof 
very slowly and carefully when he saw a 
most terrible animal coming along the parapet 

Digitized by Ct< 

towards him, with great green eyes which 
glittered in the moonlight. 

It was as large as a tiger and very much 
the same shape, but instead of being striped it 
was all coal-black, And as it came softly 
along it gave a growling roar. 

11 E-ee-a-ow ! tJ 

Peter knew quite well what it must be. 
He had seen the pi< tures and read the stories 

in the " Jungle Book " about Bagheera, the 
Black Panther. Of course^ this was a black 

The little boy slid down the roof much 
faster than he had meant to. He turned round 
and ran along the gutter at the top of his speed, 
and he heard the great beast following him, 
with a " pad -pad — pad -pad," 

Peter looked wildly about for somewhere 
to hide, and he saw a small hole under a 
broken slate. He crept into it, making 
himself as small as possible, and hoping that 
the dreadful beast would not notice where 
he had gone. 

But he was .noLio escape like that. An 




instant later he heard it roaring outside: 
** E-ee-a-ow ! E-ee-aa-ow ! " And then 
there came a low, rumbling growl which was 
very frightening, Peter's hiding-place grew 
quite dark, and he knew that the terrible 
creature was pressed close to it. And then 
came the most frightful moment of all. 

He saw the moonlight through the opening 
of the hole for a minute , and then a huge 
black paw was pushed in and began feeling 
about, Peter crushed himself together in 
one corner, but it was no use* The paw felt 
and felt until it touched him. 

The great white hooked claws caught him 
by his blue pyjamas and dragged him out 
on to the roof. He saw the panther's huge, 
furry face with its bristling whiskers and fierce 
yellow eves ; and then Peter saw something else. 

Round the panther's neck was a red collar 
with stiver bells, a collar exactly like the one 
which belonged to his own cat, Nigger, 

Then Peter under- 
t stood. It was just his 

silly size, you see. for 


the dreadful monster was only dear old 
Nigger, purring and mewing as usual, only 
his voice sounded so terribly big. 

Peter was so delighted that he put his two 
arms round Nigger's neck — although they 
didn't nearly meet — and snuggled into the soft 
warm fur, 

11 Oh, puss, puss, I am so glad it's you ! " 
he cried. 

And the black cat purred and arched his 

Digitized by Google 

back and rubbed his great head against Peter's 

head, and said : — 

" B-rr-ooo ! B-rrrr-ooo ! " 

The little boy was not a bit frightened 

any longer ; he knew quite well that Nigger 

would take him home. Cats know just as 

much about roofs as we do about streets, and 

they scarcely ever lose their way. Besides, 

Peter felt sure that Nigger had followed him 

on purpose. 

He scrambled up on to the soft, black, furry 

back of the eat, and sat holding on by the 

red collar. They set off along the housetops 

very smoothly and softly, pad-pad — pad-pad. 

It was quite different to that mad ride 

on the Nightmare, Peter grew comfortably 

drowsy and his head fell forward between 

Nigger's velvety ears. He must have been 

sound asleep 3 for he never knew whether they 

went in by the chimney or the window, so I 

don't know, either. 

Anyhow, Peter woke up to find himself in 

bed, with his arms round the black cat's neck 

and his face pressed into the soft fur, It was 

still quite dark and there 

in the doorway stood 

Nurse, with the light 

of a candle showing red 

all through the outside 

edges of her fingers. 

The little boy 

scrambled up in a great 

hurry, upsetting Nigger, 

*' Oh, Nurse, I'm so 

glad you've come ! " he 

cried. il I was so afraid 

of going to sleep without 

saying I was sorry for 

being so naughty and 

biting you," 

" Why, there ? Master 

Peter , you mustn't take 

on like that,'' Nurse said. 

and she came and kissed 

him and tucked him 

up in bed very kindly. 

" You go to sleep now, 

like a good boy, and 

don't worry anymore;' 1 

But Peter tried to explain, and Nurse quite 

understood ? for whatever he told her she 

answered : — 

• " Just Fancy, Master Peter ! " 

Which, of course, was quite true. 

And mother understood too 3 when Peter 

told her all about his adventures next day. 

She didn't laugh at him at all, but stroked 

his hair gently and said ; — 

" It was just Fancy, dearie — just Fancy." 
J Origmarfrom 




The AUGUST NUMBER will, as usual, be a 

Special Fiction Number 

containing, amongst others, stories by the following famous writers : 

Stepping Backwards 
A Lesson to Lionel Cutts 
Looping the Loop - 
Cuthbertson*s Exhibition 
The Episode \ 





C. H, BOVILL and 

ol the Exiled Monarch ) R G. WODEHOUSE 

In this number will appear the first of two articles describing 

Dr. Mawson's 

Terrible Journey 

in which Dr. Mawson will tell for the first time in detail the story 
of his thrilling experience in the Antarctic regions, in the course 
of which both his companions lost their lives and he himself, after 
perhaps the most terrific perils out of which any adventurer has 
ever escaped alive, was just able to reach safety. These articles 
will be fully illustrated by some most remarkable photographs and 
by drawings made under Dr* Mawson's personal supervision. 

^Amongst the other articles will he found 

The Latest Methods of Tracking Criminals 

How to Improve Your Batting 50 per Cent, - J. B. HOBBS 
Jottings from My Diary - - - LILLAH McCARTHY 

m As Funny as They Can ** - - By Well-Known Comic Artists 

In the September number we shall commence the publication of the -j 

New Sherlock Holmes Serial 

In this story , which will run through the magazine for some months, 
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle has provided his readers with as much 
thrilling incident and excitement as they enjoyed in the case of the 
last Sherlock Holmes serial — " The Hound of the Baskervilles.'* 

Or i gina l fre rTF 



[ Wz shall he giad Iq receive C&Htril*ttihns to this set i ion > and U> pay for stah as are accepted J\ 



graph of my 
totem-tree f at 
Barbers 1 Cor- 
ners ^Southern 
C a y u g a 
County, It 
of the trunk 
and lower 
branches of a 
tree in the 
summers of 
ton and 1912 
by George E. 
Carr, a soldier 
of the Civil 
War of 1 86* 
and [86 5. 
There are in 
all thirty- two 
figures carved 
on a!) side-?, 
consisting of 
portraits, etc. 
i his totem- 
tree Is about 
eighteen feet 
high* and i- 
viewed by 
numeroti & 
strangers, who 
pause to give it more tban a passing notice". — Mr* George 
tCarr r Union Springs, Cayuga County, New York. 


WHAT happens when ;m eleph.uLl and a modern 
six cylinder car enter into active competition 
i* shown in this contest between a Buick six and an 
elephant that is owned by a Los Angeles moving- 
picture concern. In the first heat the elephant dragged 
the car backward ; in the second the car caught the 
pachyderm off his guard and pulled it to its knees, 
b order to save the reputation of the huge quadruped, 

the third heat was omitted, the contest declared a 
draw, and all parties were satisfied.— Mr. C. L. Edholm, 
4^624. Figueroa Street, Los Angeles, California, ILS.A, 


MANY persons sit first si^ht would immediately 
say that the tree in this photograph was bearing 
fruit, but what appear to be fruit are only the homes of 
a number of small birds known as the black-throated 
weaver. These small birds are of a bright yellow colour 
with black heads and throats— hence their name — and 
build their nests in a very peculiar manner. The 
ne^ts are made of dried coarse grass, all woven together 



like a ball, and entrance is e flee ted through a small 
hole in the bottom. These birds, curiously enough y 
build in one tree — generally near a habitation — and 
the other trees of the same kind in the immediate 
vicinity have not a single nest in them. The writer 
counted about fifty nests in this one particular tree. 
The foliage of the tree chosen by these birds as their 
nesting-place suffers in a remarkable manner (as will 
be seen from the photograph), but luckily few 
trees are chosen, owing to the vast number of birds 
building in one tree. — Mr. Herbert II. Ed is, Ibadan, 
Southern Nigeria, West Africa, 

by Google 

Original from 




I AM sending you a photograph which will give your 
readers a good idea of the " bread fruit tree." 
This fruit grows to enormous dimensions, sometimes 
as much as three feet in diameter, and the dog up the 
tree enables one to realize its size. They are green in 
colour, sometimes brown if overri^. The natives 
gather them in, and when opened and cooked they are 
very sweet to the taste , but of a sweetness that is rather 
too pronounced for European tastes. When open they 
are somewhat disagreeable to smell, being very sickly, 
I have often eaten them myself when in the jungle, and 

far away from dinner^ home, and all that sort <jf thing, 
but only then. They grow on the trunk only, and 
appear foreign to the tree when seen by anycne for the 
first time, Their weight, full grown, scales as much as 
six to seven pounds* The season for harvesting them 
is just before the monsoons begin, somewhere about 
June or the end of May. They fetch from four to six 
annas each in the bazaars, according to their weight 
and soundness. — Mr* Thomas E. Long. 64th Company 
Royal Garrison Artillery, Cantonments, Rangoon, 


St, H 

IT is the name of a remarkable cat possessed by 
Mrs, Howard, who lives in Bent i nek Street, 
Helens, Kit is remarkable in more ways than one, 

but perhaps the most remarkable of her qualities is 
her fondness for newly -hatched chickens and goslings. 
In fuel, she acts as a foster-mother to the fowl* and 
has brought up live hatches Without the slightest com- 
plaint. While the mother hen is busy with her hatch- 
ing, and when, say, half t f the chicks have begun to show 
themselves, Kit takes a hand, so to speak, and, convey- 
ing the chicks in her mouth, as tenderly as any human 
beim; could I'.irrv them. she puts them in her sleeping- 
box, and nestles them with warmth until they are 
able to run al* ut. It is related that recently, while out 
for a walk at the rear of the houses, Kit heard the cries 
of a chicken in distress, and discovered that one belong- 
ing to a neighbour had got astray. Without any 
ceremony Kit picked up the chick in her mouth and 
took it home, much to the alarm of the owner, who 
thought pussie was going to make a meal of it. It 
is an extraordinary sight to see Kit lying on the 
heath- rug with half-a-dozen chickens nestling close 
to her far. Nine years ago Mrs* Howard rescued Kit 
from some boys who were going to drown her* and 
since then she has been run over by a cart and 
mangled by a spring trap ; but in spite of this she 
bears her age well-— Mr, T. Duxbury, St, Helens. 

Solution of Last Month s Bridge 

it z 

Spades 3 Hen its 7 

Diamonds 4 1 1 Heart* 10 
Diamond* 7 
Diamonds 7 

A Y 

Hearts king H earls z 

Hearts queen Hearts 5 

Diamonds 3 ! Diamonds 9 CIuTjs 3 

Club?. 2 Spades kriA^e Spades + 

Diamonds 6 I Diamonds jo Clubs 4 Diamonds 8 

Clubs quren Spades queen Spades 5 Clubs 7 

Diamonds kve< Diamonds qn. Spades 3 Clu bs S 

Clubs 6 Hearts 9 Clubs 5 Clubs king 1 

Hearts 6 Hearts knave Club s 10 Clubs 9 

Diamonds ace Diamonds king Cl ubs ace Clubs knave 

Tbe winning card in each trick 1* underlined. 
If at trick two B doe* not play his four or diamonds*. the 
problem cannot be solved. 

by Google 

Original from 

(""rw^nL'' Original from 



IN, *AREM W ^ RS | T y 0FM | CH | GAN 

($ee page 12SJ 


Vol. xlviii. 

AUGUST, 1914. 

No. 284. 


Illustrated E>y 
Christopher Clarke R-l* 

AYLOR entered the Colonel's 
quarters to the clamouring 
throb and skirl of the regi- 
mental drums and fifes beat- 
ing tattoo on the adjacent 
barrack-square. At the soft 
clash of his spurs in the 
carpeted hall a door opened swiftly, and a girl 
stood on the threshold. Colour flamed in 
her face, and her dark eyes gleamed wonder- 
fully as she looked at him. 

" Gerry/' she said, quietly, " I shall be 
here — waiting — for his answer. You'll come 
and tell me before you go ? " 

" You may be sure of that, dear," he 

She was gone back into the room as the 

butler came forward. Taylor was shown 

straight into his commanding officer's room. 

" Lieutenant Taylor to see you, sir," 

announced the butler. 

" Good evening, Taylor. I did not expect 
to see you this side mess. Anything wrong ? " 
The faint surprise in his commanding 
officer's tone brought a touch of grimness 
to Taylor's face. It reminded him that this 
was his first informal visit to his Colonel's 
private house. 

" No, there's nothing wrong, sir," he 

answered. " I've come to see you on a 

personal matter — if you can give me a few 


The Colonel motioned him to a chair. 

VgL xWiii -1* 

Taylor ignored the chair, and went and stood 
upon the black rug in front of his senior 

" Helen has promised to marry me," he 
said, simply. " Last night — at a dance. 
I've come to ask you for your consent." 

For half a minute the Colonel regarded him 
in astonished silence. 

" You want to marry my daughter ? " he 
repeated, slowly. 

Again there was a tense pause. 

" Taylor," said the Colonel, at last, abruptly, 
" I'm sorry, but it is impossible." 

For several seconds the two men faced 
each other in silence — Taylor, tall and lean, 
with grim, square-cut face, resolute and 
incisive as a modern cavalry sabre ; Lieu- 
tenant-colonel Finch-Skye, slight of build, 
grey-haired, delicately- featured, reminiscent 
of an ancient rapier. 

" Will you kindly tell me, sir," asked 
Taylor, quietly, " why it is impossible for 
an officer of i Ours ' to marry his Colonel's 
daughter ? " 

The Colonel got up from his chair, stepped 
across to the low mantelpiece, and very 
slowly pressed out the glowing end of his 
cigarette upon a crested ash-tray. When 
he turned again to his subaltern officer his 
manner was aloof and cold — the parade 
manner of the officer commanding the most 
exclusive cavalry regiment in the service. 

" Taj r I<;r,"EPl^TYsfiip^||$l|^li!3jrW " you a r 



rertainly an officer of mine — now ; but you 
were not always that. It is one thing to be 
admitted into the mess ; it is another to marry 
my daughter/ ' 

Taylor's clean-cut face hardened slightly, 
and his bronzed skin glowed redly against 
the white collar-edge that bordered the gold 
braid of his scarlet mess-jacket. He knew 
perfectly well that his admittance to the mess 
as a substantive officer in the regiment 
which had seen him swilling out stables and 
doing guards as a trooper would never have 
been attained but for the hazard which gave 
the previous tenure of command to an officer 
whose sense of proportion was strong enough 
to override the mess fetish of caste. He 
had not high birth to jump the gulf. He 
was a quartermaster's son. The allowance 
•^ which enabled him to accept his commission 
came from his father's brother, a tradesman. 

" Do you mean that because I am a ranker 
you will not let me marry Helen ? " he asked. 

" Not because you are a ranker/' answered 
the Colonel, tersely, " but because you belong 
> to the ranks — are of the ranks." 
7 It was the answer Taylor had expected, 
yet his mind flamed fiercely at its injustice. 

" In what respect, sir, am I inferior or 
different from my brother officers because of 
that ? " he asked, quickly, but with dis- 
ciplined restraint. " Am I lacking in the 
mess — at my work — in the playing-fields — 
in brain, body, or speech ? " 

" It's nothing of that sort," answered the 
Colonel. " If it were, you would not have 
remained in the mess. I've no fault to find 
with your appearance or your manners, and 
I've the greatest respect for your abilities 
as an officer. I admit that your success 
and adaptability have astonished me, and 
justified the late commanding officer's unpre- 
cedented departure. But these things are 
more or less superficial. They can be made. 
The other things which I expect in my 
daughter's husband cannot be made." 

" What are those things ? " asked Taylor. 

" What are they ? " repeated the Colonel, 
almost impatiently. " They cannot be 
described — like the points of a charger. But, 
for instance, there is this matter of the 
Staff College. You are the first officer of 
the Sixth Lancers to enter. You've passed 
in First — a considerable distinction. Very 
creditable, very — but in ' Ours ' it has always 
been an unwritten rule for an officer to sacrifice 
personal advancement, and remain always 
with his regiment. In that kind of thing — 
stupid, no doubt, to your point of view — 
lies the great difference." 

" I think you are condemning me unfairly 
in that, sir," replied Taylor. " Counting 
against me a thing which is the greatest 
honour and credit throughout the service 
simply because it is fashionable in i Ours ' t^ 
mark time on the regimental list." 

" You evidently don't understand," 
observed the Colonel ; " but I cannot expect 
you to." 

" Are you going to sacrifice Helen's 
happiness for a mere idea — a prejudice ? " 

" Mr. Taylor," said the Colonel, coldly, 
"I've known my daughter long enough to 
know what she requires in her husband. 
Your personality has no doubt fascinated 
her ; but her democratic and modern ideas 
will not be allowed to go so far as you wish. 
That is final." 

As the last word left the Colonel's lips a 
faint sound came from the doorway. Both 
men swung round on their spurred heels. 
Helen was standing in the room, her eyes 
gleaming passionately. 

" Father I " she cried, " how can you — oh ! 
how can >;ou say such things ? " 

She walked swiftly across the room to 
Taylor, and stretched out her lovely arms 
to him. The Colonel stared speechlessly. 

" Gerry," she said, softly, but proudly, 
" I will never marry anyone but you. I love 
you more than anything." 

Taylor bent and kissed the outstretched 

" I know, dear," he said, gaily, but un- 
steadily. " The Colonel and I were just — 

" I heard," she said, with the break of 
tears in her voice. " I couldn't wait." 

She turned swiftly to her father, and stood 
in front of him and put her hands upon his 
slender shoulders. 

" Dad," she appealed, " Gerry is every- 
thing to me. You wouldn't have me miserable 
for ever ? " 

Taylor saw the Colonel's steely-grey eyes 
blaze suddenly with a tenderness that sur- 
prised him. But it was only for a moment. 

" Helen," he answered, gently but firmly, 
" if you heard what I said you will know that 
it is impossible. You must let me know 
what is best for you." 

She drew her hands from his shoulders 
and turned and went to Taylor's side. 

" Father," she said, " I will never marry 
anyone but Gerry, and I would marry him, 
if he would have me, if he were still a private 

With z. tremendous effort Taylor restrained 
&n impulse to take bier in his arms, 



" You axe talking nonsense/' said the 
Colonel. " Please go to your room." 

" Father," she answered, steadily, " if I 
cannot marry Gerry with your consent, I will 
do so without." 

For a half minute the Colonel stood looking 
at them, and then he went to his writing- 
table, upon which stood two photographs, 
one of his son, a brother officer of Taylor's, 
the other of Helen. He lifted up the latter 

" If you did a thing of that sort," he said, 
sternly, " you would go out of my life like 

With an oddly dramatic gesture he placed 
the photograph face downwards upon the 


Taylor went through mess that night in 
a frame of mind which shocked his sub- 
conscious self with a sense of sacrilege. For 
the first time in his life he felt himself apart 
and detached from the scene. He was like 
a man sitting in the midst of a family from 
which he had suddenly and unjustly been 
outcast — a family he had loved and wor- 
shipped, but now saw with coldly analytic 
eyes, bitter eyes, warped for the time by the 
words of the little grey officer sitting proudly 
opposite the great gold trophy in the centre 
of the table — words which told him that 
though he sat there as part of that gallant 
assembly, he was not part of it. And then, 
like a mighty theme in wild, disordered music, 
Helen's pride in him and love for him swept 
through his battling thoughts, and again the 
sweet fragrance and faith of her brought back 
an eddy of normality. 

His fibres began to respond, as they always 
did, to the surrounding atmosphere. It was 
his turn as vice-president. After the last 
course was cleared he sat staring down the 
long length of gleaming damask to where 
the right hand of the mess president was 
fidgeting with the glittering crystal stopper 
of the decanter which had just finished its 
circuit of the table. 

Above the untroubled roll of conversation 
and the clear but controlled laughter of 
some junior subalterns, beat the inspiriting 
music of the regimental band. 

Taylor suddenly withdrew his spurred heel 
from beneath the table. The mess president 
had clutched the heavy glass stopper. 

Rat-tat t Immediate silence answered the 
double impact. 

" Mr. Vice ! " called the mess president. 

Taylor rose and lifted a rubied glass. 

Spurs jingled jerkily as every man followed 
his example. 

" Gentlemen, the King ! " Taylor's voice 
rang, and the brass music of the band flung 
out the national verse. 

At the end of the last moving note the 
response came low and steady from every 
throat, " The King ! God bless him ! " and 
the toast was drunk. 

A man on Taylor's right, who was wearing 
the mess kit of the Gordons, took out a 

" We have another toast yet," remarked 

" Oh, Lord — thanks ! I'd forgotten your 

Down the room Colonel Finch-Skye rose to 
his feet and raised his glass. 

In silence every officer did likewise. 

" Gentlemen ! The Regiment ! " 

And then, to the galloping lilt of the regi- 
mental march, matches scraped here and there 
to the commanding officer's lead, and blue 
smoke began to curl up to the great lamps. 

The Gordon Highlander turned to Taylor. 

" You're about the only regiment in the 
service with that toast as a regular thing. 
What's the origin of it ? " 

" It began when our present C.O.'s an- 
cestors raised the regiment," answered 
Taylor ; " but the toast then was * the 
Family.' " 

Taylor looked round into the reckless, 
handsome face of Helen's brother. He was 
sitting between two civilian guests whom 
Taylor recognized as members of a local hard- 
riding, high-playing set in whose society 
Nevil Finch-Skye was accustomed to spend 
much time and more money. Nevil Finch- 
Skye leaned across to Taylor. " What time 
shall you want your room to-night ? " 

Taylor looked at him blankly, and then 
suddenly remembered that he had that 
morning promised to lend his room to Nevil 
Finch-Skye for cards. The compulsory low 
limit to the stakes on games played in the 
regimental anteroom sometimes caused private 
card-parties in officers' rooms, and as Nevil 
Finch-Skye's own room was in his father's 
quarters he usually borrowed a brother 

" I'd forgotten, as a matter of fact," 
answered Taylor ; " but it's all right. I 
don't know when I shall be up." 

A sudden shuffle of feet and jingle of spurs 
cut off the conversation. The Colonel had 
risen to leave the room that his officers might 
be free to do likewise. 

Taylor did iiol; i'olbw the others into the 












anteroom. For once in his life he broke the 
mess rule which requires all junior officers to 
remain in mess on guest-night in courtesy to 
the regiment's visitors. He put on his great- 
coat and cap and went and walked the silent 
adjoining heath for a long, black two hours. 
And then he returned to barracks and went 
straight up to his room, forgetting that it 
would be occupied. 

The players were so intent upon their game 
that they did not notice his entrance. Taylor 
stood a moment as though undecided whether 
to go out again ; then, with a weary gesture, 
he removed his coat and cap and flung himself 
into an easy-chair in a corner, and presently 
he began to watch the play in a half-mechanical 

The three men were making full use of the 
privacy of the room. At Nevil Finch-Skye's 
elbow the pile of notes and gold was large, 
and growing with astonishing rapidity. Now 
and then, between the clink of glasses and 
the flick-flick of dealing cards, one of the 
players would utter -an exclamation. The 
soldier seemed to be playing under the wing 
of Fortunatus. He could do no wrong. 

His luck did not leave him impassive ; 
there was a breathless look about his parted 
lips, an odd gleam of flaming excitement in 
his eyes, an emotional quiver about his 
quickly-moving fingers which fascinated 
Taylor's attention despite the utter despon- 
dency of his thoughts. He remembered the 
game slightly. He had played it once with 
this very party, and, with a novice's luck, had 
won rather heavily. He could not remember 
its name, but it was an American jcombina- 
tion of poker and vingt-un. 

Through the haze of cigar-smoke Taylor 
stared at the handsome, irresolute face of 
Helen's brother. Compared with Ramsden, 
the opulent sporting civilian sitting at the 
side of the table, Nevil Finch-Skye looked 
less man than boy. Taylor found himself 
searching for outward signs of those things 
which marked the superiority of race — which 
distinguished himself, a quartermaster's son 
of unknown descent, from his brother officer 
whose past was marked and mingled for 
centuries with his ancient exclusive regiment. 

It was almost unbelievable to the breadth 
of Taylor's logic that a man of race like his 
Colonel should betray the fatuous snobbery 
of a country doctor's wife. Was not a man 
who had carved for himself the niche which 
birth had denied him the equal of a man 
whose only claim was the accident of birth ? 

A sudden staccato word crashed into 
Taylor's senses. 

" Wait ! " The word was rapped across 
the card-table like a bullet at a steel plate. 

With a quick thrust of his legs, Ramsden, 
the red-faced civilian, had kicked away his 
chair and was standing up, his heavy jaw 
thrust forward towards Nevil Finch-Skye, 
his right hand upon some cards which lay 
face upwards on the cloth. 

" Mr. Finch-Skye," he said, quietly, danger- 
ously, " why are there three aces of diamonds 
in these two packs of cards ? " 

Nevil Finch-Skye was staring whitely at 
the other's shirt-front, as though fascinated. 

The other man at the table gazed open- 
mouthed from the soldier to the civilian. 

For quite half a minute sound and move- 
ment suffered a horrid hiatus. 

" What — what do you mean ? " gasped 
Nevil Finch-Skye. 

" You are playing with a ' sharp ' pack/' 
answered the civilian, slowly, distinctly. 

Finch-Skye stared at the accusing red 
visage above him and suddenly round at the 
others, his glance coming to rest on the red- 
jacketed figure of the brother officer. 

Taylor looked the Colonel's son in the eyes, 
and that which he saw there brought him 
to his feet. 

" My God ! " he exclaimed, in a whisper. 

And then Taylor saw something else which 
was visible to him only. 

Glaringly white upon the dark blue over- 
ailed knees of his brother officer gleamed 
a card, on which a single red heart blazed like 
a spot of blood. 

The civilian spoke again deliberately. 

" If I did not see it with my own eyes," 
he said, " it would be incredible — an officer — 
of the Sixth Lancers." 

Nevil Finch-Skye rose suddenly to his feet. 
As he did so the card fluttered from his knees 
to the dark carpet just at the edge of the 
table, and lay face upwards and distinct, 

And then before another word could be 
uttered Taylor's spurs clashed into the silence. 
In a couple of long strides he reached the 
table. A gold-cuffed sleeve flashed suddenly 
across the green cloth, and a strong brown 
hand clutched at the two offending cards 
with such violence that the small heap of 
cards and some of the money fell to the 
floor, obliterating that single devilish ace 
before another eye could see it. 

Taylor faced the civilian. 

" These cards," he said, slowly, that the 
words should sink in, " are mine." 

All stared at him, and the seated man rose. 

T tMM^i(M<fi Nevil Finch - 



Skve's drawn face, and his features wrinkled 

» oddly. 
"Your cards!" 
The civilian glared at the tall soldier. 

I "What the deuce " 
Taylor looked calmly into the heated red 

" The cards are mine," he repeated, coldly, 
"like the room." 

" What the devil's that got to do with it ? 
You are not playing ; you are not taking our 
money with a sleeved ace." 

"It has everything to do with it," said 
Taylor, sharply. "Mr. Finch-Skye could 
scarcely insert an exact duplicate of one of 
my cards. That he has won is an accident. 
It's not the first time you've seen a man win, 
is it?" . -, 

He held up the two aces of diamonds that 
their backs could be seen ; they were obviously 
of the same design. 

The cold reason in his words snapped the 
other's anger. A flicker of doubt crossed 
his features. He looked round at Nevil 
Finch-Skye's pale face, and back to Taylor. 

" Do you mean to tell me you keep cards 
which have five aces to the pack ? " he 
demanded, slowly. 

" No," answered Taylor, coolly ; " six aces." 

He bent down and gathered up the fallen 
cards. In mesmeric silence he faced them 
quickly upon the table, and picked out six 
aces— one club, one spade, two hearts, and 
two diamonds. 

The third man spoke for the first time. 

" Ramsden," he said, " you owe Mr. Finch- 
Skye a very serious apology. This — er— 
gentleman has proved his claim to a perfect 
sharper's pack." 

Ramsden turned slowly to Nevil Finch- 
Skye. > 

" Finch-Skye," he said, " my hasty error 
I'm afraid is unpardonable. But your luck 
has been so remarkable, and in this game two 
certain aces is everything, as you know." 

Nevil Finch-Skye did not answer. 

Ramsden picked up the incriminating cards 
and examined them. The backs of the two 
aces which were duplicated were marked so 
that the manipulator could easily see from 
fcs opponents' " hands " that there would be 
&o clashing when he produced his combination. 

Ramsden turned to Taylor. 
Very ingenious," he said, deliberately. 
" There is only one possible deduction as to 
why you possess such cards, and I have just 
remembered an occasion a few months ago 
when you made a fourth with us at this game 
and were extraordinarily lucky." 

VoL xhriil— 17. 

Taylor's answer was a little unsteady in 
spite of his iron control. 

" You must," he said, " make what deduc- 
tion you please," and then he bent over the 
notes and gold upon the table. 

" How much of this is yours ? " he asked. 

" Roughly, half," was the curt answer. 

Swiftly Taylor divided it, and pushed one 
half towards each civilian. 

" Finch-Skye," said Ramsden, " again I 
must apologize to you — humbly — and to your 

Nevil Finch-Skye muttered some incoherent 
thing with lips that seemed incapable of 
proper movement, and Taylor stepped to the 
door and opened it. 

Without another word the two black- 
coated civilians passed through. 

Taylor closed the door, and came back into 
the room straight to his brother officer. 

" Why did you do it ? " he demanded, 

Nevil Finch-Skye seemed suddenly to 
awaken from his stupor to a full realization 
of what had happened. He sprang quickly 
towards the door. 

Taylor caught him by the arm. 

" Loose me ! " cried Nevil Finch-Skye. " I 
must stop them." 

By main force Taylor thrust him into one 
of the vacated chairs. 

" Now listen to me," said Taylor, in a voice 
that carried the whistle of steel. " What 
drove you to that — God only knows. We 
will say no more of it. But — before you 
leave this room, you will swear by all you 
hold sacred to let my — lie — be — the truth." 

Slowly the Colonel's son raised his head. 

" You ask me to keep that up — to ruin 
your life — for my sake ? " 

"For your sake?" said Taylor. " No ! 
For something which you seem to have for- 
gotten — the regiment ! " 

" The regiment ! " repeated the other. 

" You," said Taylor, steadily, " are the 
C.O.'s son, one of a long line of ' Sixth ' 
officers — part of the regiment's very life. 
For you to have done a thing like that would 
drag its record along the garrison gutters and 
make it reek in every barrack-square. For 
me to do it is — well, to be expected, and will 
be forgotten before you get your third star." 

Something in Taylor's tone pained like the 
thrust of a bayonet. 

Nevil Finch-Skye rose quickly. " Do you 
think I'd have done that unless I was driven ? " 
he cried. " Do you know what it is to be like 
a rat in a corner ? They could have spared 
the money ; they've won pots from me. Do 

by L^OOgle 

u I I I '.' I I I 




you know what it is to be faced with ruin ? 
To need money to the' pitch of murder ? " 

At that moment a knock came at the door 
and a mess steward entered. 

" Mr. Finch-Skye, sir — the Adjutant's com- 
pliments, and will you see him at once in the 
anteroom ? " 

The two officers looked at the man. Taylor 

" Mr. Fiftch-Skye will be down imme- 
diately/ ' 

The door closed on a dead silence. Both 
men realized the significance of the simple 
message. Taylor hooked his forefinger into 
his collar, as though to ease a sudden in- 
tolerable pressure. The other man stared 
at him beneath twitching eyelids. Taylor 
spoke again, steadily. 

" Better not keep Edwards waiting." He 
walked to the door and laid his hand on the 

Heavily, unwillingly, like a figure respond- 
ing to an invisible string, Nevil Finch-Skye 
followed him. 

" I suppose," he said, labouredly, " you 
really — mean — me — to — stick " 

Taylor's look cut off the sentence abruptly 
— abased the question. It was as if he had 
been asked whether an outpost on a menaced 
battle-front should remain faithful to its 

Slowly Nevil Finch-Skye left the room. 
For several long minutes Taylor remained 
like a man in a dream, as men do sometimes 
in the cold preface of action, when a ray of 
God's sunshine breaks across the grey scarred 
trenches in the dawn, and flings on the mind's 
retina an instantaneous picture of soft golden 
corn at home, and a woman's face with wait- 
ing and longing in her eyes ; to be obliterated 
just as quickly by the rattle of a bayonet 
scabbard against a rifle-barrel, a muttered 
oath, or the tinkle of empty cartridge-cases 
in the trench-bottom. 

Nevil Finch-Skye had been gone just ten 
minutes when Taylor's door opened again 
and an officer entered. It was the Adjutant, 
Taylor's special friend. 

" Halloa, Edwards ! " exclaimed Taylor. 

Edwards shut the door and stood just inside 
the room, perfectly still. 

" Mr. Taylor," he said, slowly, " your 
sword ! " 

Taylor stared dumbly at him for a few 
seconds, and then he turned to a side table 
upon which gleamed a long plated scabbard 
in its gold-lace dress-slings. With a steady 
hand that closed lovingly around its cold, 
immaculate surface, he lifted it. In silence 

by V_ 



he turned upon his heel and held it towards 
the Adjutant, his eyes fixed upon the black, 
empty grip in its hilt of silvered steel. 

The Adjutant's hand closed over the gold- 
braided knot and brought the bare white 
blade out of the scabbard. 

" Does that mean I am under arrest ? " 
asked Taylor, quietly. 

" The Colonel is waiting for you in his 
quarters," said the Adjutant ; and then, very 
stiffly, with Taylor's naked sword in his right 
hand, he turned 'upon a jingling heel and left 
Taylor standing in the middle of the room, 
his left hand gripping the empty scabbard. 


Taylor was waiting in the hall nearly ten 
minutes before he was shown into the Colonel's 
room. He found his commanding officer 
standing rigid and inflexible beneath a row 
of pictured Finch-Skyes— lancers aH. 

" You sent for me, sir ? " said Taylor, 
quietly. % 

The Colonel regarded him silently for a brief 
moment, his eyes gleaming like bayonet 

" I've sent for you," he said, in a tone 
that cut like a falling blade, " as I never 
expected to send for an officer of the Sixth 
Lancers. It is difficult for me to believe, 
even now." He paused for a moment, and 
looked straightly, sternly, into Taylor's set 
face. " Two of our civilian guests," he con- 
tinued, slowly, " accuse you of cheating— 
or its equivalent — at cards. Their evidence 
is supported by your brother officer, my son. 
Have you anything to say ? " 

Taylor's face grew whiter, but his answer 
was perfectly steady. 

" There is nothing — more— to be said, sir." 

The two men looked each other in the eyes. 

" Have you no explanation — if such a thing 
can be explained ? " asked the Colonel. 
" I could not expect you to have the instincts 
to keep you from that, but were not your 
future prospects sufficiently valuable to keep 
you from imperilling your career ? " 

" I have nothing to say, sir," answered 

The Colonel turned on his heel. 

" You will send in your papers," he said, 
shortly. " You will be granted leave from 
to-night, pending the acceptance of your 

At that moment the door was flung suddenly 
open and Helen entered with her brother. 
Distress was written upon Helen's face, but 
her eyes lit up with a great light as she looked 
at Gerry Taylor. 

Original from 





Taylor knew suddenly what the interruption 
•Kant. He sprang forward towards Helen's 
brother and then stopped. Upon Nevil 
Finch - Skye sat a new look. He 
talked up to his father. The Colonel stood 
quite still, as though held by the sudden 
tension of an impending something. 

I( Dad/' said Nevil Finch-Skye, quickly, 
abruptly, " I told you a lie to-night. Those 
cards were mine, not Taylor's- I was cheats 
ing, and Taylor — took the blame," 

For a whole minute there was a dead silence, 
*nd the old Colonel stood as a bayoneted man 
stands at the moment of impact* Nevil's 
words carried the conviction of steel, 

L -oogle 

With a look from her brother to Gerry, 
Helen went to her father and gently took his 
arm. The action seemed to awaken him and 
bring back the soldier's mind. He stared at 
his son. 

14 You— a Finch-Skye ? " he said, slowly. 

The boy did not answer. 

li And you let a brother officer shoulder 
your blame ? " 

Taylor spoke. 

11 I made him," he said. 

The Colonel turned. 

** Made him ? " he repeated. 

M Yes, sir," said Taylor. 

The Colonel turned Jigftin to his .son. 




" What made you speak now ? " he asked. 

" Helen, sir," was the unsteady answer; " her 
happiness. I've just found out Taylor is 
everything to her." 

The Colonel stared at Taylor. 

" And you ? " he said, slowly. " I suppose 
that also was your motive — you shouldered 
my son's blame for his sister's sake, because 
you were in love with her ? " 

Taylor looked at him steadily. 

" No, sir," he answered. 

" Then why ? " asked the Colonel. " What 
made you make a great sacrifice like that ? " 

" The regiment," stated Taylor, simply. 

" The regiment ! " repeated the Colonel. 

" It did not matter so much — a ranker — 
doing that," said Taylor, quietly. . 

For quite a long time the Colonel remained 
rigid and wordless, his eyes upon his ranker 
officer. At last he spoke. 

"Taylor," he said, a little unevenly, 
" you've taught a narrow old soldier the 
real meaning of the words ' an officer and a 
gentleman ' — a lesson he will never forget." 

Taylor's face flushed, and Helen's eyes 
were very bright. 

The Colonel turned to his son, who stood 
white-faced and silent. 

" You," he said, harshly, " will go across 
to the mess and tell your brother officers this 
— thing. You will then take off your uniform 
and " 

Taylor interrupted his commanding (officer. 

" Stop, sir ! " he said, quietly but incisively. 
" That will only clear me, but there's the 
regiment. I could not prevent Nevil speaking, 
but I can ask you to let things stand." 

The Colonel swung round slowly on his heel. 

" Taylor," he said, in a voice that vibrated 
with feeling, " it is — impossible, even for 
the old regiment " 

The sudden opening of the door broke on 
the Colonel's sentence. The Adjutant had 
entered, followed by the two civilians. 
They halted suddenly. The Adjutant 
apologized quickly. 

" I beg your pardon, sir ; I did not 
know " 

The Colonel cut him off abruptly. 

" You've come at the right moment, 
Edwards," he said, shortly. " Mr. Ramsden," 
he continued, " my son wishes to correct 
your ideas on the subject of the card party." 

Nevil Finch-Skye's spurs jingled. 

" The cards," he said, at once, " were mine, 
not Taylor's." 

He turned and flung himself into a chair 
with his face in his hands. 

" Good God ! " exclaimed Ramsden, 
with a quick gesture towards the Adjutant. 
" I thought " 

The Adjutant was looking Taylor in the 
eyes, and a deep colour had flowed to his 

" You thought what, Mr. Ramsden ? " 
asked the Colonel. 

The Adjutant answered. 

u Mr. Ramsden has just come back to 
barracks to see you, sir, because he was 
uneasy about this evening." 

" I felt there was something funny some- 
where," explained Ramsden, quickly. " We 
felt bound to come back and see you." He 
stepped towards Taylor, his red face mottling 
with emotion. " I should like to have the 
honour of shaking your hand, if you will 
allow me," he said, in moved tones. " It 
is beyond me such a " 

" Mr. Taylor," interrupted the Colonel, 
" took the blame for the sake of his 

The civilians stood for half a minute in a 
silence that: was almost awed . Then Ramsden 
turned to the Adjutant. 

"Thank Heaven," he, said, deliberately, 
" si^ch a sacrifice was not in vain !" 

All but Nevil stared at him, the Adjutant 
with a sudden comprehension. 

You mean- 

he said. 

" I mean," said Ramsden, " that if no one 
but ourselves knows of this evening's doings, 
we will wash it out." 

The Colonel stiffened his shoulders, and 
the lines of his features deepened. 

There was a short pause, broken by the 
Adjutant. He was looking at his CO. 

" No one else knows yet. Colonel," he 
pleaded, " the old regiment ! " 

A sob broke suddenly from Helen. The 
Colonel put his arm around her for a few 
seconds. Then he gently pushed her toward 
his ranker officer. 

" Taylor," he said, " she's all I have now. 
I am proud to give her to you." 

He turned again to the others, his finely-cut 
features rigid with repression. 

" Gentlemen," he said, simply, "for. my 
regiment I thank you." 

by Google 

Original from 

Rolf, tke Wonder Dog 
of Mannheim. 


D.Dc, r.L.D., F.R.ri.S., 

Professor of Zoology in University College, Cork. 


^^^^^^Hr v ^ff JUS- ^V 




^Vvtn a J*ftolo„ 6jrt 

jRffjuiKKf ucerf J»y periritMitm e/ f j-an JDr. .Woskrl. 

(ff. Lift JTmhtofat 

The marvellous feats of Rolf, "the Thinking Dor/" have aroused the greatest interest on the 
Continent, arid have been the cause of much discussion ; but we believe that this is the first 
detailed illustrated article on the subject to appear in this country. These feats at first sight appear 
to be wildly fantastic and incredible — but the fact remains that some of the most eminent scientific 
author ities alive have put them to the strictest tests and are convinced that they are genuine, If so, it is 
obvious that many of our ideas on the intelligence of animals will have to be changed. If. on 
the other hand, the feats are performed by means of trickery, so ingenious as to deceive the 
keenest scientific expens, it becomes a matter of almost as great interest to conjecture *' how it is 
done." The usual explanation, that signs and sounds imperceptible to the spectator are employed, 
obviously will not suit the whole of the phenomena in the present instance. 

a HE Elbcrfeld stallions, with 
their capacity for cipheringand 
their spontaneous communi- 
cations in the way of sentences 
pawed out by a numerical 
alphabet, have not only ex- 
cited the interest of all animal- 
Wrs and psychologists on the Continent, 
^t their fame has spread to England, and is 
^ginning to arouse here the same heated con- 
troversies as abroad. Far more wonderful is 

Rolf, the Airedale terrier of Mannheim, whose 
deeds have, so far as I know, only been related 
over here within a limited compass in 
which it was impossible to do justice to the 
interesting results alleged to have been 
obtained, or to the immense body of evidence 
that, to my mind, carries conviction, despite 
the utterly unexpected character of his feats, 
Rolf was a stray, picked up as a pup and 
tenderly nursed by the wife of an advocate of 
Mannheim, Dr. Meckel. This lady, evidently 



of strong character and great sympathy with 
animals, has for the last seven years been 
compelled to lead a sofa-life from " white 
leg/' and the whole family life has centred 
in her room. Here she typed her letters, 
painted, received her guests ; here the children 
prepared their lessons for school, or were 
instructed by private tutors. Here, too, 
Rolf spent most of his time playing with the 
children, and we may imagine him watching 
all that went on with that wistful gaze which 
every dog-lover interprets as expressing the 
wish to understand better and to be better 
understood. In this respect he had far more 
unconscious instruction than the horses, even 
though — perhaps because — there were no set 
lessons wherein attention was made a task. 
One day, we are told, the little girl had one 
of those fits to which all children are subject, 
in which it is hard to say whether temporary 
stupidity, inattention, or obstinacy is pre- 

" Come, now," said the mother, " any child 
knows what a hundred and twenty-two plus 
two is," and she noted Rolf looking on with 
large, imploring eyes. 
She went on : "I bet 
even Rolf knows. 
What is two plus two, 
Rolf?" To her sur- 


Rolf immedi- 



If g % ~ ji, 1 Q 4lt 

6 M f 

L % 



•iir is 

ately patted out four 

pats on her arm. This 

was a revelation, and 

Frau Moekel, finding, 

after some further 

tests, that this was 

no accident, took up 

the clue seriously, 

and devoted herself 

to educating the dog, 

in the same tender 

way that I have seen 

a mother talking to 

a dumb child to develop its faculties. She 

would show him objects in the room and 

explain what they were, or, if he himself 

sniffed earnestly at anything, would tell him 

all about it. She would sit with him for an 

hour at a time by the window, talking to 

him about every person and object that 

passed by. 

Soon she discovered that the dog could do 
complicated sums, including all the rules. 
It was found that he could read and under- 
stand figures, and answer by patting out what 
was written on a board , as well as what was set 
verbally. He also, as the children discovered, 
understood the value of the local decimal 



coins (one hundred pfennige equal one mark). 
" Mother " utilized his readiness to paw 
set numbers to devise means of elementary 
communication, with the following conven- 
tions : 2 = " yes," 3=" no," 4 = " tired," 
5 = 1 'go out," 7 = " bed." One day she was 
typing a letter to her parents and recounting 
his prowess, and noticed that when she wrote 
" Rolf " he wagged his tail energetically as he 
sat looking on. I must quote her account: — 
" I looked at him in amazement, and asked 
if he could read what I had written. With 
gleaming eyes he patted out his * Yes ' ! 
Great was my delight ; but no one would 
believe me, least of all my husband. I tried 
experiments, which succeeded without excep- 
tion. I wrote down words very clearly and 
put a number under each on a board, I held 
the board up to him until I could assume that 
he had read all properly. I then turned 
over the board and wrote down one of the 
words without the number, and Rolf in each 
and every case patted out the correct number 

After this " Mother," having read casually 
in a newspaper of 
Krall's success in 
teaching the horses 
to spell by a conven- 
tional numerical 
alphabet, decided on 
asking Rolf if he 
would like to learn 
an alphabet to talk 
to her . — A very 
marked " Yes ! " 

" Now attend, Rolf. 
I will tell you a letter, 
and you will tell me 
what number to put 
to it." 

She noted the 
numbers carefully, 
and next day found 
that Rolf had kept them fast in his head. 
In this way he learned an alphabet at the 
rate of about five letters a day. Rolf 
learned well and seemed to enjoy his lessons. 
But a curious fact soon became apparent : he 
used the letters syllabically as well as alpha- 
betical^. So when he was asked to spell 
" Karla," the name of the little girl, he spelt 
it k r I a, the letter " k " in German being called 
" ka." The Elberfeld stallions take the same 
liberty of simplification in their spelling, a 
device not unknown to the stenographer and 
to the semi-literate, also to the comic author 
—thus, " YY U R, YY U B, I C U R YY tor 
me " (" Too wise you are," etc.). 


U *v.h**J 


\\ 13 lit $ f 

U ?«** 




ll\ I 




Frau Moekel relates with much humour 
how once, when visitors were in the sitting- 
room, she sent off the children to do their 
sums elsewhere. She stole in on them after a 
time to see if they were working, and found 
them sitting with Rolf. All the answers to 
the sums in their exercise-books were, to her 
surprise, correct ; but her suspicions had been 
aroused by the little boy's sending Rolf away 
when she came in, and when she asked him 
if Rolf had given the answers, " a very tiny 
voice answered, ' Yes ! ' " 

So far we have drawn on Frau Moekel's 
own account, which may be regarded as tinged 
with optimism, if not partiality. But when 
we pass to the records of scientific visitors, 
well trained in observation and full of 
scientific caution, we find a confirmation 
which justifies us in regarding Frau Moekel 
as a " witness of truth," and that a very 
competent one. Dr. William Mackenzie, of 
Genoa, in the Archives de Psychologie, 
January, 1914, has given the most complete 
account of a three days' investigation ; 
others have given accounts in the journal 
Tierseele and the Mittheilungen of the Society 
for Animal Psychology. The records are 
accompanied by " protocols," giving not 
merely the answers, but the numbers of 
Rolf's paw-pats and the letters corresponding. 
We have noted the abbreviated spelling he 
uses. P and B, K and G, T and D are freely 
interchanged, and a final "g" often replaces 
the breathed guttural " ch." I will spare the 
readers of The Strand Magazine and give 
English renderings alone, as closely corre- 
sponding in style as I can, and call attention 
to the " pidgin - English " syntax, which 
is also characteristic of the early speech 
of children, nigger - English, and nigger- 
French, etc. 

Great stress is laid by all observers, not so 
much on the feats of ciphering, which of 
course might, under less stringent conditions, 
be explicable by trickery or unconscious 
suggestion, as on the answering of the unpre- 
pared, as well as on Rolf's spontaneous — 
" utterances," shall we call them ? 

Thus Dr. Mackenzie brought in his pocket 
a handkerchief strongly scented, .which Rolf 
promptly recognized as "handkerchief." 
He asked for another to be brought, which 
came duly folded from the wardrobe, and 
asked, "What is the difference?" Rolf, 
whose scent is apparently not well developed, 
answered, instead of " smells," which was 
expected, "crinkled" (i.e., the child-word, 
not the standard German for rumpled). Dr. 
Mackenzie brought with him envelopes con- 

Dlgiiized by GOOQle 

taining picture-cards, with the pictures to 
the back of the envelope ; the card was taken 
out and handed over the shoulder of " Mother " 
towards Rolf, who was facing her, with the 
company behind her, so that the blank side 
of the card alone was visible to all but 

His identifications were every time correct. 
They gave even more than was expected ; 
for he described birds sitting on a tiny, 
inconspicuous twig as " birds, tree." He 
gave the difference between men and women 
as " nice hair, clothes." When his attention 
was called to Dr. Moekel's fine beard and silk 
tie, and asked how men were different, the 
reply came, " trousers." After correctly 
identifying a dachshund, he was asked, 
" What are you ? " " Dog." " Yes ; but the 
dachs is a dog, too. What is the difference ? " ._ 
" Other feet." He correctly described a 
blue and a red square which Dr. Mackenzie 
had drawn on a card. Next day, however, 
he was disinclined for work, and the promise 
of sugar alone induced him to set to ; but 
the italicized additions to the descriptions 
show one side of his character. The first was 
spotted as " blue star, ugly " ; the second, 
shown the day before, came out this time 
" blue, red cube, enough" My baby son in 
Ceylon, when he did not want to be taught any 
more " things," always added to his answer 
" deng atti " — now enough. The first day 
Dr. Mackenzie was very pleased, and made to 
pat Rolf ; but he is very nervous at being 
touched, especially at lesson-time, and growled. 
" Mother " scolded him, and he patted out, 
" Rolf nice, not bite." 

The doctor must have been pleased when, 
at the beginning of the next sitting, Rolf 
pawed out, " Rolf love Dr. Mackenzie," and 
still more pleased to receive a few days after a 
letter dictated by Rolf, who, according to the 
elder daughter's statement, ran after her, 
insisting on her attending to his communica- 
tion until she sat down to record the follow- 
ing : " Dear Dr. Mackenzie, — Come soon, never 
go away ; bring pictures, yours too. Love. — 
Rolf." In the protocol of a later sitting we 
find the answer to a letter of a girl asking 
him to come and help her with her sums : 
" Love. Rolf come to you, help you cipher. 
Kiss. — Rolf." He received a letter from 
Herr Krall (the horse-trainer of Elberfeld), 
accompanied by a picture-book, containing a 
drawing of a school for animals, where the 
animals were not giving satisfaction. This 
was his answer : " Love. Glad of book ; 
Daisy (the cat) must see. Animals like learn- 
ing, bookmaker storyteller. Plenty gentle- 




men were there. Christchild (Father Ohristr 
mas) coming. Mother brings. him. Horses 
have a (Christmas) tree, too. Rotf gives you 
little Rolf (photograph). Many kisses. — 
Rolf." This marvellous answer demanded 
eight hundred and fifty taps and took fifty 
minutes. It was taken down in the presence 
of Professor Gruber, the zoologist, of Freiburg, 
and Privatdozent Dr. Gruber, and several 
others, besides Frau and Fraulein Luise 

When Frau Moekel related to Dr. Mackenzie 
how, on one of her rare walks, a man cdme 
up roughly to her and was seized by the 
throat by Rolf, who was removed with diffi- 
culty, the dog wagged his tail. " What are 
we talking about ? " was asked. The reply 
was, " Man bad ; Rolf help mother." Two 
very doggy stories are worth recounting, the 
second being taken from one of the protocols. 
Once, after the Continental custom, they were 
shaving Jela, the Airedale bitch who is Rolf's 
fellow inmate, and commented on the quantity 
of fleas, despite her weekly bath. Rolf 
patted, " Rolf plenty fleas ; Jela plentier." 
During a test sitting Rolf suddenly was rude 
enough to stop short and scratch himself 
vigorously. Rebuked for this breach of 
etiquette, he pleaded, " Belly bite bad." 

The dog, like a bright child, is not always 
ready to show off. On one occasion at a 
sitting, after two previous strenuous days with 
Professor Ziegler, he declined to look at the 
cards held up for spotting and finally tapped 
out, " Saw many pictures and said what it is 
with Ziegler ; won't say any more ; give 
over." This is from Dr. Gruber J s protocol. 
A more amusing instance is related by 
" Mother." He would not show off before a 
lady visitor, and she asked him why he was so 
lazy. " Doctor forbids." " Well, will you 
ask Auntie something ? " " Nine plus five ? " 
The lady said in jest, " Thirteen," then 
" Fourteen," and finally " Fifteen," to all of 
which Rolf tapped out " No," most ener- 
getically at the correct answer, fourteen. 
" Well," said " Mother," "you tell us, Rolf." 
" Fourteen." " But Auntie said fourteen." 
"Sold!" tapped Rolf. "Well, now ask 
Auntie to do something for you." " Waggle," 
was the reply. 

We all know how sympathetic dogs are to 
their owners when in trouble ; and the wistful 
looks they cast, as if to say they know 
their master's pain and would do anything 
to soften it, are the commonplace of dog- 
loving authors. Frau Moekel relates that one 
day, when she was crying after her daughter 
had gone away to boarding-school,* Rolf 

came up and tapped : " Mother not cry j 
makes Rolf sad." 

The suggestions made to account for the 
extraordinary performances of the dog have 
been manifold. Telepathy has been most 
seriously invoked ; and wireless telegraphy is 
not the wildest of the impossible suggestions 
that have been made by those who declare in 
advance the impossibility of animals thinking 
or counting. To anyone who considers the 
evidence dispassionately, however, the ad- 
mission of unsuspected power? of learning, 
thinking, and expression in animals becomes 
the only legitimate inference, startling as it 
at first appeared to all of us. 

However, virulent controversies, which 
have been compared to the Dreyfus Affair, 
have arisen in Germany about these mani- 
festations of animal powers of reason. 
Strangely enough, we find strenuous advo- 
cates on both sides, the disbelievers adducing, 
some orthodox, some freethinking arguments 
against the very possibility of the facts ; 
some, like Professor Plate, the disciple of 
Haeckel, on the one hand, and Professor 
Camillo Schneider and Frau Moekel herself, 
both sincere Catholics, on the other, maintain 
that the genuineness of the observations is 
equally immaterial to the cause of religion or 
irreligion, as the case may be. But the 
quaintest protest against such experiments 
was by Frau Professor Quidde, of Munich, 
who, after a paper read by Krall at the Zurich 
Congress for the Protection of Animals, got 
up and said she could no longer take part in 
the congress which listened to such things; 
that Krall was an accomplice of the vivi- 
sectionists ; that she was indignant at such 
needless inquiries, since " animals are much 
more clever than human beings." And with 
this she shook the dust of the congress from 
her skirts. 

I should add that neither the Mannheim 
dog nor the Elberfeld horses have ever 
been shown for money ; the demonstration of 
their exploits has been a source of expense, 
not revenue. The maintenance of a stud of 
horses, not apparently used for breeding or 
riding, must have proved a very costly hobby 
to Herr Krall, the jeweller of Elberfeld. And 
the reception of a stream of visitors, the ex- 
pense of an enormous correspondence, must 
have been a burden on the resources of a 
barrister's wife in the small provincial town 
of Mannheim. 

It is obvious that the whole value of this 
account depends upon the overwhelming 
evidence of the eminent scientific men who 
have investigated the phenomena. To read 



Htprvductd b r permiuwn »/ y r an /Jr. Mo§kci. 

over their protocols will convince any im- 
partial reader of the authenticity and sincerity 
of their records , and in my opinion justify 
our willingness to accept in the same spirit 
the narrations of Frau Moekel, which — 
uncorroborated — would, we admit, he too 
startling for belief. At the suggestion 
of the Editor of The Strand Magazine, I 
have written to the authors of the printed 
Pfpers which I have utilized to supplement 
*\au Dr. Moekel 's published articles and 
private letters with reference to the authen- 
ticity of the accounts and the genuineness of 
™ phenomena. All have vouched for them 
^' er their signatures, and their letters have 
k*n duly submitted to the Editor. They are 
Emeritus Professor August Gruber ; Dr/Karl 

Vol. ihriiL— IB. 

by Google 

Gruber, Privatdozent (Lecturer) in Zoology 
of the University of Munich ; Professor 
Kraemer, of the Royal Agricultural College 
(Hochsrhule) at Hohenheim, in Wiir tern berg ; 
Dr. William Mackenzie, psychologist, of Genoa; 
and Dr. Paul Sarasin,of Basle, the well-known 
traveller, anthropologist, and zoologist. 

I reproduce a translation of Dr. Karl 
Gruber's letter : " Dear Professor, — While 
thanking you for your friendly letter* I wish 
to confirm that I was a witness to Rolfs 
giving his answers, I was able to arrange 
investigations which excluded all conscious 
or unconscious deception ; for Rolf alone was 
able to see the problems set for him to solve, 
and solved them. — With regards, yours 
sincerely, (Signed) Dr. Karl Gruber/' 

Original from 

Cop ana the Anthem 


Illustrated! by Treyer Evans* 

N his bench 

in Madison 


Soapy moved 

U When wild 

£t honk " high at night, 
when women without seal- 
skin coats grow kind to 
their husbands, and when 
Soapy moves uneasily on 
his bench in the park, you 
may know that winter is 
near at hand, 

A dead leaf fell in Soapy's 
lap. His mind became 
cognizant of the fact that 
the time had come for him 
to provide against the 
coming rigour. And 
therefore he moved un- 
easily on his bench. 

The winter ambitions 
of Soapy were not of the 
highest. In them there 
were no considerations 
of Mediterranean 
cruises, of soporific 
Southern skies , or drift- 
ing in the Vesuvian Bay. 
Three months in prison a 
was what his soul 
craved. Three months of 
assured board and bed and congenial company, 
safe from Boreas and bluecoats, seemed to 
Soapy the essence of things desirable. 

For years the hospitable cell had been his 
winter quarters. Just as his more fortunate 
fellow New Yorkers had bought their tickets 
to Palm Beach and the Riviera each winter, 
so Soapy had made his humbler arrange- 
ments for his annual hegira to prison. And 
now the time was come. On the previous 
night three Sabbath newspapers, distributed 


"""' di5tril 

beneath his coat, about his 
ankles, and over his lap, 
had failed to repulse the 
cold as he slept on his bench 
near the spurting fountain 
in the ancient square. So 
prison loomed big and 
timely in Soapy 's mind , He 
scorned the provisions made 
in the name of charity for 
the city's dependents- In 
Soapy's opinion the law 
was more benign than 
philanthropy. There was an 
endless round of institu- 
tions on which he might set 
out and receive lodging and 
food accordant with the 
simple life, But to one of 
Soapy's proud spirit the 
gifts of charity are encum- 
bered. If not in coin, you. 
must pay in humiliation of 
spirit for every benefit re- 
ceived at the hands of 
philanthropy. As Ctesar had 
his Brutus, every bed of 
charity must have its toll 
of a bath , every loaf of 
bread its compensation of a private 
and personal inquisition* Wherefore 
it is better to be a guest of the law, 
which, though conducted by rules, 
does not meddle unduly with a gentle- 
man's private affairs. , 

Soapy, having decided to go to prison, at 
once set about accomplishing his desire* 
There were many easy ways of doing this. 
The pleasantest was to dine luxuriously at 
some expensive restaurant, and then, after 
declaring insolvency, be handed over quietly 
and without uproar to a policeman. An 
accommodating magistrate would do the 

Soapy kft: his bench and strolled out of the 



ND. H 


T 39 

•quare and across the level sea of asphalt 
where Broadway and Fifth Avenue flow 
together- Up Broadway he turned, and 
hailed at a glittering cafe y where are gathered 
together nightly the choicest products of the 
grape, the silkworm, and the protoplasm. 

Soapy had confidence in himself from the 
lowest button of his vest upward. He was 
shaven and his coat was decent, and his neat 
black, ready-tied *' four-in-hand ,? had been 
presented to him by a lady missionary on 
Thanksgiving Day. If he could reach a table 
in the restaurant unsuspected ( success would 
be his. The portion of him that would show 
above the table would raise no doubt in the 
waiter's mind. A roasted mallard duck, 
thought Soapy f would be about the thing — 
with a bottle of Chablis, and then Camembert, 
a demi-tasse, and a cigar. One dollar for the 
figar would be enough. The total would 
not be so high as to call forth any supreme 
manifestation of revenge from the caji 
management ; and yet the meat would leave 
him filled and happy for the journey to his 
winter refuge. 

But as Soapy set foot inside 
the Testaurant door the head 
waiter's eye fell upon his frayed 


trousers and decadent shoes. Strong and 
ready hands turned him about and conveyed 
him in silence and haste to the sidewalk, and 
averted the ignoble fate of the menaced 

Digitized by GOOQ I C 

Soapy turned off Broadway, It seemed 
that his route to the coveted haven of refuge 
was not to be an epicurean one* Some other 
way of entering limbo must be thought of. 

At a corner of Sixth Avenue electric lights 
and cunningly-displayed wares behind plate- 
glass made a .shop window conspicuous. 
Soapy took a cobblestone and dashed it 
through the glass. People came running 
around the corner, a policeman in the lead. 
Soapy stood still, with his hands in his pockets, 
and smiled at the sight of brass buttons. 

u Where's the man that done that ? " 
inquired the officer, excitedly. 

(t Don't you figure out that I might have 
had something to do with it ? " said Soapy, 
not without sarcasm, but friendly, as one 
greets good fortune. 

The policeman's mind refused to acce^ 
Soapy* even as a clue. Men who smash 
windows do not remain to parley with the 
law's minions. They take to their heels. 
The policeman saw a man half-way down 
the street running to catch a car. With 
drawn club he started in hot pursuit. Soapy, 
with disgust in his heart, loafed along, twice 

On the opposite side of the street was a 

restaurant of no great pretensions. It 

catered to large appetites and modest purses. 

Its crockery and atmosphere were thick ; its 

soup and napery thin. Into this plate Soapy 

took his accusive shoes and telltale trousers 

without challenge. At a table he sat and 

consumed beefsteak , flapjacks , 

doughnuts, and pie. And then to 

the waiter he betrayed the fact that 

the minutest coin and himself were 


<£ Now, get busy and call a cop," 
said Soapy. " And don't keep a 
gentleman waiting." 

" No cop for you," said the waiter, 
with a voice like butter -cakes and 
an eye like the cherry in a Man- 
hattan cocktail. " Hey, Con ! " 
Neatly upon his left ear on the callous 
pavement two waiters pitched Soapy. He 
arose, joint by joint t as a carpenter's rule 
oj^ns, and beat the dust from his clothes. 
Arrest seemed but a rosy dream. Prison 
seemed very far away, A policeman who 
stood before a drug-store two doors away 
laughed and walked down the street. 
Five blocks Soapy travelled before his 
courage permitted him to woo capture again. 
This time the opportunity presented what 
he fatuously termed to himself a " cinch." A 
young woman of a modest and pleasing guise 




was standing before a show window, gazing 
with sprightly interest at its display of 
shaving-mugs and inkstands 3 and two yards 
from the window a large policeman of severe 
demeanour leaned against a water-plug. 

It was Soapy' s design to assume the rale 
of the despicable and execrated " masher/' 
The refined and 
elegant appear- 
ance of his victim 
and the contiguity 
of the conscien- 
t i o u s cop en- 
couraged him to 
* believe that he 
would soon feel 
the pleasant 
official clutch 
upon his arm that 
would ensure his 
winter quarters 
on the right 
little, tight little 

Soapy straight- 
ened the lady 
ready - made tie 5 
dragged his 
shrinking cuffs 
into the openj set 
his hat at a kill- 
ing cant, and 
sidled toward the 
young woman. 
He made eyes at 
her, was taken 
with sudden 

coughs and " hems/' smiled, smirked, and 
went brazenly through the impudent and 
contemptible litany of the " masher." With 
half an eye Soapy saw that the policeman was 
watching him fixedly. The young woman 
moved away a few steps ? and again bestowed 
her absorbed attention upon the shaving- 
mugs. Soapy followed, boldly stepping to 
her side, raised his hat, and said :— 

" Ah, there, Bedelia ! Don't you want to 
come and play in the yard ? " 

The policeman was still looking- The 
persecuted young woman had but to beckon 
a finger, and Soapy would be practically 
en route for his insular haven. Already he 
imagined he could feel the cosy warmth of 
the station-house. The young woman faced 
him and j stretching out a hand, caught 
Soapy's coat-sleeve. * f Sure, Mike," she said, 
joyfully. " I'd have spoke to you sooner, but 
the cop was watching. 5 ' 

d by Google 

With the young woman playing the clinging 
ivy to his oak Soapy walked past the police- 
man overcome with gloom. He seemed 
doomed to liberty. 

At the next corner he shook off his com- 
panion and ran. He halted in the district 
where by night are found the lightest streets, 
hearts, vows , and librettos. 
Women in furs and men 
great - coat s moved 
gaily in the wintry air, A 
sudden fear seized Soapy 
that some dreadful en- 
chantment had rendered 
him immune to arrest* 
The thought brought 
a little of panic 
upon it, and when 
he came upon 
another police- 
man lounging 
grandly in front 
of atransplendent 
theatre he caught 
at the immediate 
straw of " dis- 
orderly conduct/* 
On the side- 
walk Soapy began 
to yell drunken 
gibberish at the 
top of his harsh 
voice. He danced, 
howled, raved, 
and otherwise dis- 
turbed the welkin. 
The policeman 
twirled his club, 
turned his back to Soapy, and remarked to a 
citizen :- — 

11 *Tis one of them Vale lads celebratm* the 
goose-egg they give to the Hartford College, 
Noisy j but no harm. We've instructions to 
lave them be,' ? 

Disconsolate , Soapy ceased his unavailing 
racket. Would never a policeman lay hands 
on him ? In his fancy prison seemed an 
unattainable Arcadia. He buttoned his thin 
coat against the chilling wind. 

In a cigar store he saw a well-dressed man 
lighting a cigar at a swinging light. His silk 
umbrella he had set by the door on entering. 
Soapy stepped inside 3 secured the umbrella, 
and sauntered off with it slowly. The man 
at the cigar light followed hastily. 
" My umbrella," he said, sternly, 
" Oh, is it ? " sneered Soapy, adding insult 
to petty larceny. " Well, why don't you call 
a policeman? Ix took it* Your umbrella! 





Why don't you call a cop ? There stands one 
on the corner/' 

The umbrella owner slowed his steps. 
Soapy did likewise, with a presentiment that 
luck would again run against him. The 
policeman looked at the two curiously, 

** Of course," said the umbrella man — 
14 that is — well, you know how these mistakes 
occur. I — if it's your umbrella, I hope you'll 
excuse me — I picked it up this morning in a 
restaurant. If you recognize it as yours — 
why, I hope you'll ,J 

" Of course it's mine/' said Soapy, viciously. 

The ex-umbrella man retreated. The police- 
man hurried to assist a tall blonde in an 
opera-cloak across the street , in front of a 
street-car that was approaching two blocks 

Soapy walked eastward through a 
street damaged by improvements. Ifr 
hurled the umbrella wrathful! y into an 
excavation. He muttered against the 
men who wear helmets and carry clubs. 
Because he wanted to fall into their 
clutches, they seemed to regard him as 
a king who could do no wrong. 

At length Soapy reached one of the 
avenues to the east where the glitter 
and turmoil was but faint. He set his 
face down this toward Madison Square , 
for the homing instinct survives even 
when the home is a park bench. 

But on an unusually quiet comer 
Soapy came to a standstill 
Here was an old church, 
quaint and rambling and 
gabled. Through one 
violet 1 stained window a 
soft light glowed j where., 
no doubt , the organist 
loitered over the keys, 
making sure of his mas- 
tery of the coming Sab- 
bath anthem. For there 
drifted out to Soapy's 
ears sweet music that 
taught and held him 
transfixed against the 
convolutions of the iron 

The moon was above, 
lustrous and serene; 
vehicles and pedestrians 
were few; sparrows 
twittered sleepily in the 
eaves — for a little while 

the scene might have been a country 
churchyard. And the anthem that the 
organist played cemented Soapy to the 
iron fence , for he had known it well 
in the days when his life contained such 
things as mothers and roses and ambitions 
and friends and immaculate thoughts and 

The conjunction of Soapy 's receptive state 
of mind and the influences about the old church 
wrought a sudden and wonderful change in 
his soul. He viewed with swift horror the 
pit into which he had tumbled, the degraded 
days, unworthy desires, dead hopes, wrecked 
faculties j. and base motives that made up his 

And also in a moment his heart responded 
thrillingly to this novel mood* An instan- 
taneous and strong impulse 
moved him to battle witJT" 
his desperate fate. He 
would pull himself out of 
the mire ; he would make 
a man of himself again ; he 
would conquer the evil 
that had taken possession 
of him, There was time ; 
he was comparatively 
young yet j he would 
resurrect his old eager 
ambitions and pursue them 
without faltering. Those 
solemn but sweet organ 
notes had set up a revo- 
lution in him. To-morrow 
he would find work. A 
fur importer had once 
offered him a place as 
driver. He would find 
him to-morrow and ask for 
the position. He would 
be somebody in the world. 
He would^- — 

Soapy felt a hand laid 

on his arm. He looked 

quickly around into the 

broad face of a policeman. 

M What are you doin J 

here ? n asked the officer. 

" No thin'/' said Soapy, 

li Then come along/ 9 

said the policeman* 

" Three months *' said 
the magistrate in the 
police - court the next 

"'what ari: you oojn' kkrb?' 

CASKKl) 1 




tne <r 

jd op 

An Adventure of Sam Briggs. 

Richard Marsh 

Illustrated by Charles Ffears 



HEN I thought of what was to 
happen to me on the morrow, 
which was the August Bank 
Holiday, my blood ran cold — 
at least it did not exactly 
run cold, because the weather 
was much too hot for any- 
thing of that kind. 

It all came from my fondness for joining in 
a general conversation. There was a little 
party at Mrs. Wilkinson's. There was Mrs. 
Wilkinson, and there was Tom, and there were 
three or four people whom I knew more or 
less — and there was Dora. I may say, in a 
manner of speaking, that Dora did it. My 
feelings towards that girl — however, we won't 
dwell upon that matter now ; some things are 
better forgotten. There was a person there 
named Arthur Brown, with sandy hair and 
freckles, and a manner which put me all on 
edge. The way he talked you'd have thought 
he owned the earth. He had made fifty-four 
or fifty-five runs in a cricket match the day 
before, which was Saturday afternoon, and the 
way he talked about it was just as much as 
I could stand. And that Tom Wilkinson 
backed him up. I found out afterwards that 
Tom, who is a regular blood, owed him very 
nearly a pound, money lent. 

" Some of your strokes, Arthur," said 
Tom, " were about as good as anything I've 
seen. That snick of yours through point to 
the boundary was a beauty." 

" What snick was that ? " 
asked Brown. " I cut 
several boundaries to point 
— it's rather a favourite 
stroke of mine." 

"Asa matter of fact/' 
said George Miller, who, 
like me, had had about 
enough of him, " I should 
hardly call the stroke a 
cut at all. You get under 
the ball, up it goes in the 
air, and the last person 
who knows where it's going 
is the striker." There were 
audible smiles at this — we 
had all of us had about 
enough of. Brown. Miller 
added, " And of course the 
bowling yesterday after- 
noon was tosh. What I 
wondered was that you didn't make five 
hundred instead of fifty. Then look at the 
lives you got — if there had been anybody 
there who could hold a ball you'd have been 
out in the first over." 

This, I admit, was severe on Brown. Dora 
did not like it — I call her Dora though I had 
only met her three or four times, but such 
were my feelings towards the girl. She 
observed, in what I should describe as a 
sarcastic tone of voice : — 

" It's easy for some people to make fun of 
what other people do, especially when they 
can do nothing themselves. I love cricket, 
and a man who can bat well I admire almost 
beyond anything." 

Miller having set the ball rolling, we all of 
us, so to speak, had a kick at it. In conse- 
quence of what Miss Wilkinson had said every 
gentleman present wanted to give her to under- 
stand that even if he could not play cricket 
it was not only because he despised the game 
but also because he could do lots of other 
things in a way which had surprised everyone 
who had seen him. It stands to reason that 
I was not going to be left out of a conversa- 
tion like that. I gave Miss Wilkinson to 
understand that I did not play football, or 
cricket, or hockey, or tennis, because my 
tastes were for what you might call higher 

" What . do you call ' higher things,' 
Briggs ? n asked Miller, speaking with what 


J 43 

I should call positive rudeness, "Sitting on 
the top of a bus, or sliding on your back 
down Primrose Hill ? " 

I just withered Miller and confined my 
remarks to Miss Wilkinson. 

" I don't want to boast/' I told her, " and, 
as a matter of fact, it is nothing to boast of, 
because in things like this it's as you're made. 
I think I may say that I don't mind danger 1 — 
I'd like to be an airman — that's the sort of 
thing which appeals to me, something where 
there is danger." 

" Ever been up in an aeroplane ? " asked 
an individual whom I had never seen before. 
If I had been wise I should have had a good 
look at him; but that's me all over, do a thing 
first and think about it afterwards — that 
seems to be my motto. 

" I cannot exactly say," I observed, 
" that I have positively been up in an 
aeroplane, but it doesn't follow that my 
tastes don't run in that direction. My 
own opinion is, speaking of what I know of 
myself, that I'd make rather a good hand at 
the game." 

" What game ? " 

" Flying." 

" Then you're the very man I want." 

" I don't quite follow you," I told him. 

" I want a flying man." 

I stared at him. " But I can't positively 
call myself a flying man, never having flown. 
I might also mention that I've never even 
seen an aeroplane close to." 

" No, but you said your tastes lay in that 

" Yes, Mr. Briggs, you certainly did. I 
heard you. You said you liked anything in 
which there was danger. There's lots of 
danger in flying." 

That was Dora Wilkinson, and, looking 
hack, I call a remark like that, coming from 
her, hitting below the belt. I could not back 
out from what she'd heard me say right in 
front of her very face. So I maintain that it 
was she who practically drove me to stick 
to my guns. So I stuck to them. 

" I'm obliged to you, sir," I told the 
stranger. " I don't happen to have the 
pleasure of knowing who you are — if I heard 
it I didn't catch your name. At any time 
you may care, as I might call it, to introduce 
me to an aeroplane I shall be at your service 
—whether by night or by day." 

" I'll introduce you to one to-morrow if 
you'd like me to." 

u Oh, Mr. Briggs, how delightful that will 
be." This was Dora Wilkinson, but what 
she knew about it I can't say. 

Digitized by C^OOgle 

" Tom," I said, right out, " would you 
mind introducing me to your friend ? " 

" The gentleman is a friend of mine," said 
Arthur Brown, " but it so happens that I 
don't know his name." 

" I was having a little something to eat 
with Charlie Herriot," the stranger explained, 
" and after we had finished this gentleman 
came in. He left the same time I did, and, 
as he was going in my direction, we walked 
together. When we came to the door of 
this house he was so good as to say, * I'm 
going in to see an old friend of mine ; care 
to come in ? I'm sure he'd look upon any 
friend of mine as a friend of his.' " 

From the way in which the stranger spoke, 
I could see with half an eye that he was a 
cut above Brown's lot. He went on : — 

" Permit me to apologize for my intrusion, 
and at the same time to introduce myself. 
My name is Launcelot King — you may, by 
some fortunate accident, have heard of me in 
connection with aeroplanes. I'm an air- 

Launcelot King ! The instant I heard the 
name I knew I had put my foot in it. What 
you might call a premonitory shiver went • 
down my back. 

" You don't, by any chance," I asked him, 
with a sort of a gasp, " happen to be the 
Launcelot King ? " 

" I believe," he answered, " I may say that 
I am." 

" What ! The party who loops the loop 
and all that kind of thing ? " 

" I certainly have looped the loop, as the 
public calls it. I hope to do it again to- 

That was a facer. If there was anyone, 
as the papers put it, who was in the public 
eye in connection with aeroplanes, it was 
Launcelot King. There is nothing in a 
flying way he hasn't done. I don't quite 
know what he has done, not having been, up 
to that moment, very much interested in 
aviation, but I believe he has done every- 
thing in the flying line that can be done — 
flown over the Channel I don't know how 
many times ; I believe he's flown over the 
Alps, or the Pyrenees, or something of the 
kind ; I've a strong idea that he's flown higher 
than anybody else, and farther too — in fact, 
as I said, I don't believe there's anything he 
hasn't done. And fancy me talking about 
being fond of danger to a man like that I 

While we all sat staring at him, feeling, I've 

no doubt, what a lot of idiots we were, he 

said, casual like, to me : — 

" Mr. Briggs, sir, I believe is your name. 
cw -' kj\ \ nil i a i iruiii 





by Google 

Original from 



If, as you say, you'd like to be an airman, 
I'll not only introduce you to an aeroplane, 
but to-morrow I'll take you with me as my 
passenger. To-morrow, being Bank Holiday, 
I am giving an exhibition at the Wormwood 
Scrubs Aerodrome. I've got to have a 
passenger, and if you'll let me have the favour 
of your company I shall have pleasure in 
giving you a seat in my car." 

When he talked to me like that I felt as if 
something must have gone wrong with my 
inside. The others, like a lot of jackasses, 
actually applauded him as if he had said 
something clever. Dora Wilkinson jumped 
up from her chair and clapped her hands. 

" Oh, Mr. Briggs," she cried, as if she had 
any right to so much as open her mouth, 
" what an honour for you ! Mr. King, do you 
mean it ? Will you really take Mr. Briggs 
up with you as a passenger to-morrow ? " 

" I shall be delighted." Mr. King held out 
his hand, just in time to keep that girl from 
starting to clap again. " I sha'n't be doing 
Mr. Briggs a favour — he'll be doing me one. 
Mr. Briggs, may I count upon you to- 
morrow ? " 

I wriggled — just wriggled. That was all 
I could do. With them all looking on, 
especially that Dora Wilkinson, I couldn't 
very well get up and leave the room, saying 
something about being in a hurry to catch a 
train, so I just went on sitting — and I wriggled. 
" Will there be anything to pay ? " asked 
Dora Wilkinson. 

" Pay ?— by Mr. Briggs ? Rather not. If 
I can count upon his assistance for the whole 
of my programme I might be able to go so far 
as to present him with a five-pound note." 

I confess that that appealed to me — 
decidedly. Not too many fivers come my 
way, worse luck ! and the chance of getting 
one does appeal to me. 

"Fancy,"said Dora; " how splendid ! You're 
not only going to do what you'd love to do, 
but you're going to be paid for doing it. A 
five-pound note will come in rather useful, 
won't it, Mr. Briggs ? " 

That was a malicious remark for her to 
make, I say it distinctly. There had been a 
little something said, a few days before, about 
her going out with me to a picture show — me 
paying ; and the matter had only fallen 
through because I didn't happen at the 
moment to have enough cash to do the paying. 
The end of the month it was — I get paid 
monthly, I do ; at the end of the month I 
generally am a little short, but that particular 
month, as luck would have it, I was abso- 
lutely stony — dead broke. 

Vol. xlviil— 19. 

" Then if you did get that fiver you might 
take me to a picture show, mightn't you, Mr. 
Briggs ? And we might sit in the best seats. 
Wouldn't that be lovely ? " 

Before I could answer her, as I should have 
done in half a minute — oh, there are cases 
in which I can give as good as is sent !— but 
before, as I said, I could get my words, as it 
were, together, to let certain people know 
what I thought of them, Mr. King got up 
from his chair, and he addressed himself to me 
in a manner which I felt was most gentlemanly 
and flattering. 

" I'm afraid I must be off. Now, Mr. 
Briggs, may I count upon you to-morrow ? 
You will do me a considerable service if I can. 
To tell you the truth, I was rather wondering 
where my passenger was coming from. Like 
a good fellow, say ' yes.' " 

" Of course he'll say * yes ' ; he'd never 

dream of refusing — would you ? " cried Dora. 

" Well, Mr. King," I began, " it's only fair 

to let you know that I never have been in 

an aeroplane as yet." 

" That makes no difference. I sha'n't ask 
you to act as pilot, or do anything except sit 
still. The flying begins at three ; if you'll be 
on the ground at half-past two there'll be 
plenty of time to tell you everything which 
need be told — which is practically nothing. 
I'll just give you a few hints and we'll be off." 
" Where are you going to ? " asked Miller, 
who, I could see, was more impressed than he 
cared to own. It isn't everyone who has a 
chance of going flying with Launcelot King. 
I awaited Mr. King's answer with interest ; 
I didn't want to start flying across Europe 
without, so to speak, knowing it. 

" To begin with," he said, " we shall go 
nowhere, just round and round the ground, to 
show the crowd that I have the aeroplane 
under complete control." 
" And then ? " 

" And then ? " Mr. King shrugged his 
shoulders. " Then I shall show the people 
what you might call a few tricks." 
" With Briggs on board ? " 
" Obviously ; that's one of the chief point: 
why I'm counting on Mr. Briggs's assistance. 
Between ourselves, a crowd always seems to 
enjoy such a trick as looping the loop better 
when the pilot has a passenger on board— I 
fancy it's because they're always expecting 
to see him fall out." 

" You hear that, Briggs ? Mind you oblige 
the company by treating them to a little per- 
formance on your own." 

Mr. King was most pleasant — at least, he 
meant to be. 




" Never mind him, Mr. Briggs — I needn't 
tell you that the chance of your falling out 
is a very slight one." 

Miller persisted — clumsy idiot ! " Still there 
is a chance, isn't there ? " 

" Of course there's a chance ; when you're 
up in the air there's always a chance of any- 
thing happening. But I understood Mr. 
Briggs to say that that was exactly what 
appeals to him — the spice of danger. I can 
promise you this, Mr. Briggs — if you're a 
lover of sensations, you shall be treated to 
some to-morrow. Even an old and seasoned 
hand as I am sometimes gets all the sensa- 
tions he wants when he's giving an exhibition 
performance such as I am to give to-morrow 
at Wormwood Scrubs." 

With that Mr. King went — and the moment 
he had gone they all set y at me. A nice time 
I had between them ! Miller began by 
suggesting that I might catch the night train 
for Paris, or Timbuctoo, or somewhere, and 
that would be a good excuse for my non- 
appearance on the Monday. Someone else 
made out that if I bribed the driver of a taxi- 
cab to have an accident and smash me up 
that would serve the purpose equally well. 
They all made out that the one thing I wanted 
was to keep as far away from Wormwood 
Scrubs as I jolly well could. 

Dora Wilkinson saw me to the front door. 
I do not deny that I might have been a minute 
or two getting through it. That girl had 
egged me on as far as I had got — that I shall 
always maintain — and while she was saying 
good-night to me she egged me farther. 

I left Mrs. Wilkinson's house with my head 
in a whirl. I had not only undertaken, if 
anything happened to Mr. King, to fly his 
aeroplane myself, but also promised, when 
the flying was over, to take that girl to a 
picture show. I will not say we kissed — I 
don't wish to go into private matters in public 
— but as I walked along the pavement and 
waved my hand to her for the very last time 
I told myself that that was a girl in a million. 
The way she had called me " Sam " made me 
thrill all over. 

And yet all the while I knew that she had 
egged me on. It was like Samson and 
Delilah, or something of that sort — for all I 
knew she had lured me to my ruin. When I 
got home, the moment I set foot inside the 
door my sister, who was going in to supper, 
said to me : — 

" Halloa, Sam! What's up? You look 
as if you'd found sixpence." 

I said nothing to her ; I said nothing to 
them all, till we were seated at table. The 

guv'nor was talking about something he had 
read in The News of the World, and talking 
about how dangerous it was to drive a motor- 
car at sixty miles an hour along Fleet Street 
in the middle of the day, when I mentioned 
casually, as it might be, as if it was nothing 
at all : — 

" I'm going flying to-morrow." 

You should have seen the guv'nor put 
down his knife and fork, and the way in 
which the mater stared at me. 

Louisa laughed — as if I had said something 

" Sam — don't be silly ! Fancy your talk- 
ing about going flying, when you hardly dare 
trust yourself in a motor-car if it's going very 
fast. Bob Snelling told me that once you 
were quite cross with him because he would 
keep going at more than thirty miles an hour. 
Flying, indeed ! You 1 " 

In my judgment Louisa's little speech was 
decidedly offensive. I told her so. 

" I suppose, Louisa, it's no use asking you 
to behave yourself — you don't know how to 
do it — so I'll just merely repeat that to- 
morrow I'm going flying." 

" Sam ! " exclaimed the mater. " What- 
ever do you mean ? I do hope you're not 
thinking of doing anything silly I " 

tl The word ' silly ' as applied to me on the 
present occasion is out of place." It is not 
often I ride the high horse, but when I do I'm 
a oner to go. I spoke my mind to the mater 
quite plainly. " When I mention that I have 
made arrangements with Mr. Launcelot King, 
the distinguished airman, to give an exhibi- 
tion with him to-morrow afternoon at Worm- 
wood Scrubs, illustrative of recent progress 
in aviation, I have nothing further to add. A 
hundred thousand spectators are expected to 
be present." 

You should have seen the look which was 
on their faces. It is my impression that 
they thought I had suddenly gone off my 
dot, but nothing was farther from the fact. 
My intention was to let them know that they 
had been mistaken in my character. I was 
strung up to the sticking-point, and so I gave 
them to understand. The mater made quite 
a scene. She positively said, right to my very 
face, and me of age, a grown-up man, that 
she would not have me risk my life. The 
guv'nor laughed at her. 

" Now, mother, don't be silly. I'm proud 
of Sam. I don't know if he's serious " 

" If you'll come to Wormwood Scrubs 
to-morrow afternoon — I'll give you a pass 
which will admit you to the ground — you'll 
find I never wq& more serious in my life." 



" Sam," said the mater, " I hope you're 
going to do nothing dangerous ? " 

" I'm going to do everything that's dan- 
gerous — that's the idea. It is no good talk- 
ing, mother ; it's all signed and sealed and 
settled. I've lived a very quiet life up to 
the present, but from this time on I shall 
probably keep myself before the public eye." 

I have read about condemned criminals 
sleeping soundly just before their execution ; 
there was nothing of that sort about me — not 
much ! As a rule, I am a good hand at 
sleeping, perhaps a bit too good ; but that 
Sunday night before Bank Holiday — oh, my 
word ! It was that hot — my bedroom was not 
large, with the window wide open top and 
bottom there seemed to be no air — anyhow it 
would not have been easy to sleep. But with 
Mr. Launcelot King on my mind, I suppose it 
was three o'clock in the morning before I 
closed my eyes. 

Louisa was waiting breakfast for me all 
alone by herself. 

II Sam," she began, as soon as I put my 
nose inside the door, " you're not really going 
flying, are you ? " 

It was no use my telling her that when I 
said a thing I meant it, because she knew 
better, so I merely observed : — 

" Come to Wormwood Scrubs this after- 
noon and you'll see." 

" Whatever made you think of doing 
anything so wicked ? " 

" Wicked ? " It was my turn to stare. 
" It's the first time I knew there was anything 
wicked about flying." 

" All I know is that mother has had an 
awful night all because of you. I think you 
ought to go up to her and tell her it was only 
a joke of yours. Suppose anything happens 
to you ? Suppose they bring you back dead, 
or with every bone in your body broken — 
what will become of mother ? " 

It seemed to me that, in that case, the 
question was what would become of me. I 
said as much. 

" Louisa, I don't mind telling you that it's 
not a job I'm so extra keen about ; not so 
keen this morning as I was last night. But 
I've given my word ; Mr. King is depending 
on me, and I'm not going to back out of it. 
Of course, if anything does happen to me it 
does — and that's all about it." 

Louisa looked as if she could not make me 
out at all. 

" I don't mind what happens to you ; if 
you choose to smash yourself up you must ; 
but I do think you needn't have said a word 
to mother till all was over. You know how 

she worries every time you talk about doing 
something silly — now she'll know no peace 
till they've brought you back on a stretcher. 
I see by this morning's paper that two more 
flying men were killed on Saturday, and now 
I've got to hide the paper away from mother 
lest she should see it too. I do think you 
might have kept a still tongue in your head. 
What time is it going to be ? " 

" I'm to be on the ground at half-past two, 
and the exhibition will commence at three. 
There seems to be a bit of a breeze — perhaps 
he won't go up. It may turn to a gale of 
wind before this afternoon." 

" Launcelot King will go up if it blows a 
hurricane — he always does — he's a most 
dangerous man. He's absolutely certain to 
kill himself one day, with the risks he takes. 
But I don't believe for a moment he'll take 

44 Won't take me ? Why ? " 

" I shouldn't wonder if mother asked him 
not to." 

" Asked him not to ! She hadn't better ! 
I'm not a baby ! " 

" You're worse ; you're mad. You 
know, Sam, sometimes you really are not 

44 I'll trouble you, Louisa Briggs, not to talk 
like that to me. Seems to me that the one 
place where you can rely on being insulted is 
your own home. No one would dare to talk 
to me like that outside it." 

44 That's because they don't know you. I 
don't suppose when Mr. King has a really 
good look at you, and sees what sort of person 
you are, he'll dream of taking you with him." 

I pushed my plate away from me ; her 
style of conversation was all the breakfast I 

44 Thank you very much indeed, Louisa, for 
your kind remarks. If, as I've already said, 
you're on the ground this afternoon, you'll 

I never shall forget that August Bank 
Holiday as long as I live. The guv'nor had 
gone to business ; he's in the General Post 
Office, and Bank Holidays make no difference 
to him. I didn't want to risk an interview 
with the mater, so I walked straight out of 
the house as soon as breakfast was finished. 
A man doesn't want to have a scene with his 
mother no matter how his mind is made up. 
I walked over to Bill Edwards to'get him to 
come out for a stretch. I knew there was no 
fear of any nonsense about him. Glad to see 
me, he was — wanted to walk down to Hampton 
and make a day of it. When I told him I 
couldn't, |tpR^f5|f \^f ^H^jAW flv that 



afternoon, he simply yelled — a bit noisy, Bill 
Edwards is. 

" I was just wondering what I could do 
with myself that didn't cost money," he said, 
" when you came in, and I was looking in the 
paper to see what there was. I saw about 
Wormwood Scrubs, and I was just thinking 
that I might as well go and look at the 

11 Admission to the ground is half a crown, 
and I don't know how much extra for the 
reserved enclosure." 

" I wasn't going to pay any half-crown. 
What do you take me for ? The thing about 
flying is that you can see just as well outside 
the ground as you can in— especially at a 
place like Wormwood Scrubs. Here's all 
about it." 

He spread a newspaper out on the table. 

" It's Launcelot King I want to see. It 
seems he's going to give them thrillers. 
Honest Injin, Sam, you're not going up with 

" I am ; make no mistake about it — I'm 

" Don't talk like that ! I've always known, 
of course, that your head isn't the strongest 
part of you, but I never guessed you were 
such a flat. Fancy going up in an aeroplane 
with a dare-devil like that Launcelot King ! 
Jehoshaphat ! " 

He put his hands into his trousers pockets, 
leaned back, stretched out his leg?, and 
whistled— encouraging, as usual. 

I went to the aerodrome with Bill Edwards. 
He's always been a pal of mine, and though 
he's fond of his fun, there's no one I'd sooner 
turn to if I was in a bit of a hole. Mr. King 
had given me his card — Bill and I went in 
by a private gate. There were some people 
— inside and out ! 

II Looks as if all London was here," said 
Bill, when we had picked our way at last 
through the thousands and thousands who 
were waiting to get a free view. " I wonder 
they let us in," he added, when presently we 
were through the gate. 

" What do you mean, you silly snip ? 
That was Mr. King's card I showed him — 
' Admit Mr. Briggs and friends.' " 

" Yes, I dare say ; that's what it made 
itself out to be. But my idea was that it 
wasn't his card at all — that someone had been 
having a lark with you." 

Something of that sort had been in my 
head. The more I thought of it the more I 
wondered how a gentleman like Launcelot 
King had come to be at Mrs. Wilkinson's, 
especially picked up promiscuous, as it seemed, 

by a silly ass like Arthur Brown. However, 
presently, as we were making our way through 
the crowd which was standing round the 
fenced-off piece of ground in which we could 
see the aeroplane, a voice sang out : — 

" Good afternoon, Mr. Briggs. I was just 
beginning to wonder if you were going to 
desert me." 

The party speaking was dressed in as queer 
a set of togs as ever I saw, tight-fitting leather 
all over — hands and head and face and all. I 
should never have known who he was from 
Adam if it had not been for his voice, and that 
was Mr. King's. 

" How are you feeling ? Fit to fly round 
the world ? " 

" I'm feeling pretty fair to middling, thank 
you ; but I don't know about flying round 
the world. I doubt if I could spare the time." 

He laughed as if I had made a joke. I 
didn't feel like joking ; I admit it right out. 
The sight of him, in that rig, and all those 
people, and the aeroplane, and something 
that was in the air, gave me qualms. I felt, 
somehow, shaky about the knees. If I had 
had a chance it wouldn't have taken much 
to make me cut and run. Mr. King was 
looking at Bill Edwards. 

" A friend of yours, Mr. Briggs ? Would 
he like to try what flying is like ? I might 
be able to oblige him if he would." 

" No," said Bill, very short and sharp ; 
" I should not. I'm not what you might call 
adventurous — at least, not in that direction. 
When it comes to flying, looking on is quite 
good enough for me." 

Mr. King laughed again, as if he had made 
a joke. 

" There are plenty of people of your opinion, 
and there are probably nearly as many who 
would give a good deal to have the chance of 
taking Mr. Briggs's place this afternoon." 

" So far as I'm concerned," Bill replied, 
" let them. I only hope Briggs will be of 
that opinion by the time he's done." 

Mr. King laughed again — he seemed to be 
quite a hand at laughing. He said to me : — 

" Your friend's a pessimist. Come along, 
Mr. Briggs ; we'll see if we can find you some- 
thing to wear. You know, it's colder up 
above than it is here, and I hope we're going 
to move at about a hundred miles an hour." 

So I went with him — as I have seen it 
written somewhere — like a lamb to the 
slaughter. I don't know how a lamb feels, 
but if it feels queerer than I did I'm sorry for 
the lamb. It was aM I could do to walk 
straight : ^f0H^K^N a wooden-shed 
sort of place there was a man standing at the 








^ - 








Original from 



door. When he saw me he remarked to 
King :— 

" So that's the victim, is it ? You've 
caught him young." 

Mr. King laughed as he observed : — 

" Don't you talk greater nonsense than you 
can help. This gentleman is going up for a 
little amusement after his own heart — aren't 
you ? " 

" Maybe he is/' went on the other man. 
" Fools step in — you know the rest. I hear 
you've been searching round for someone who 
would like to break his neck in your company ; 
it doesn't look as if you had had much success 
if this is the only game you've bagged. I 
hope you've insured your life, young man, 
and that someone will benefit from what is 
going to happen to you. I don't know if you 
are aware that Mr. King talks about doing a 
series of loops right round the ground. In a 
breeze like this that will mean — you know 
the usual thing — placard for the evening 
papers, ' Another flying tragedy — at Worm- 
wood Scrubs. Pilot and Passenger.' There 
being no more room on the placard, people 
are left to discover what became of that pilot 
and passenger for themselves." 

" Cheerful sort of party, isn't he ? " This 
was Mr. King, who, having got me into the 
fihed, had shut the door against the other 
man, and was laughing again. " That's 
Lieutenant. Moresby, one of the Aldershot 
crowd. He was to have flown this afternoon, 
but orders have come that in this breeze he's 
not to tempt Providence, so he's a little sour — 
that's what's the matter with him. I think 
that little lot will about suit you." 

" That little lot " consisted of trousers 
and a sort of tunic, leather outside, thickly 
lined with wool within. Considering that the 
weather was roasting hot and I was perspiring 
all over, it looked as if things like those weren't 
wanted. But I wasn't my own master ; I 
couldn't have argued the question if I'd tried. 
He put me into them somehow ; then he 
started raking out what he called a helmet. 
A nice-looking article that was ; by the time 
he'd got it on my head I bet I looked a sight. 
It covered me all over, it did, ears and all — 
all the lot of me, except my eyes and my nose 
and my mouth. I thought I should have 
dropped down with the heat, to say nothing 
of that floppy sort of feeling at the knees. It 
was just as if I hadn't any bones in my body 
which could hold me straight ; and as for 
talking, I don't believe I could have uttered 
a long sentence if you had offered me a dollar. 
Presently he said : — 

" Now then, Briggs, we're ready. All you 

want is these goggles. You must have some 
protection for the eyes in a job like this." 

I had heard of goggles, but I don't believe 
I had seen a pair before, not close to, and 
certainly not a pair like that. Great things 
they were — he fastened them somehow at the 
back of my head, pretty tight. What little 
part of my face had been bare they covered 
up, and more. Big they were for me, and 
some of the flaps went over the helmet. So 
there I was with two thicknesses of leather 
and two of padded wool — covered an inch 
thick, I was, with the thermometer above 
boiling point ! I could see that I was in for 
a nice afternoon. 

" You look a picture, Briggs — the character. 
To look at you anyone would think you had 
been piloting an aeroplane all your life." 

I knew he was laughing at me — he seemed 
to have a trick of laughing at everyone and 
everything. But I had to bear it without 
even pretending to grin. 

He took me straight from the shed to the 
aeroplane, a distance of only a few yards. I 
thought in a muddled sort of way about what 
I'd read of how they take a murderer from the 
condemned cell to the gallows — sometimes 
just outside the door. That aeroplane was 
to me very much like the gallows that after- 
noon. I can't describe the state I was in. 
Words wouldn't do it justice — not the sort of 
words I can lay my pen to. I was sort of 
dazed — I couldn't even think. I don't 
believe I clearly realized where I was, or what 
I was going to do. I feel the heat more than 
most — and how I did feel it then ! I was just 
a moving mass of perspiration. I had a kind 
of dim notion that my mother might be some- 
where in the crowd, and Louisa, and Bill 
Edwards, and the rest of them. Perhaps at 
that moment they were looking at me. If 
they'd only been able to see inside me they 
would have had a shock. Perhaps Dora 
Wilkinson was there — that I did think was 
hard. It was through her I was where I was 
—I had that in my mind all the time. 

When I was young I used to recite a poem 
called " The Glove." It was about King 
Francis — though I never knew who he was, 
except that I had a sort of idea that he wasn't 
English. There were a lot of lions fighting in 
a sort of circus, and he sat looking on and 
enjoying seeing them tearing each other to 
pieces — a nice kind of a king he must have 
been ! There was a young woman looking 
on, and by her was her lover — I forget his 
name, but I know he was a knight. All at 
once she thought she'd show him off, so she 
dropped hn glove into the circus, right bang 




in the middle of the lions — it must have been 
a good throw from where she was sitting — and 
she tipped her lover the wink. He bowed. 
With a single bound he leaped among the 
roaring, raging beasts. 

The leap was quick, return was quick, 
As he regained his place 

The words of the poem came back to me 
when I thought of Dora Wilkinson. Then, 
just as she was thinking that now was her 
chance to show him off, and how people 
would envy her because sheM got such a 
brave knight all to herself — 

He threw the glove, but not with love, 
Right in the lady's face. 

My word ! that must have been a surprise 
for her. King Francis got up and told her 
straight, plain as plain, that it served her 
right — I forget the exact words he used, but 
that's what they came to. And so it did serve 
her right ! Any young woman who risked 
her young man's life just for the fun and the 
glory of showing people what a fine young 
man she'd got, it would serve her right if he 
threw something in her face, and turned on 
his heel and walked away. If I came out of 
this alive, I told myself, deep down in my 
perspiring breast, Pd show Dora Wilkinson 
what I thought of her. 

" You see, Mr. Briggs, you sit here." 

While I'd been thinking things we had got 
to the aeroplane and were standing alongside 
of it, and Launcelot King was pointing out 
where I had to sit. He made it all quite plain, 
in the cheery sort of way he had. 

" There's not the slightest risk of your 
falling out, but in case anything should 
happen while we're looping the loop, here's a 
strap to make you fast to your seat. These 
are to put the toes of your boots in, and these 
handles by the sides of your seat are for you 
to hold on to — for instance, when you're 
upside down. With them you'll be as safe as 
if you were in your bed. Time's nearly up. 
Jump in ! " 

I jumped in — that is, I as nearly jumped as 
I could considering the condition I was in. 
I never once tried to run, I never even once 
looked round ; I defy anyone to say that I 
tried to bolt. Weighed down as I was with 
that lot of leather goods, I couldn't have 
bolted even if I'd tried — which was perhaps 
one reason why I didn't try. I just tumbled 
into the aeroplane as well as I could, and got 
on to the seat, and Mr. King, he fastened me 
in. I thought cf the " chair " in America 
which they fasten people in when they're 
going to electrocute them. I wondered if 
those chaps felt like I did when Mr. King 

by LiOOgle 

buckled that strap tightly round me. I 
closed my eyes — not that I could see anything 
through those goggles when I'd got them 
open — but I just closed them, which will show 
the terrible state of mind I was in. Then Mr. 
King got into another seat in front, some- 
thing happened to something — something 
which made a noise. Mr. King said to me : — 

" Look out, Briggs ! " Then to someone 
else, " Let her go ! " 

And, my word ! that aeroplane began to 
move. Never shall I be able to give anyone 
any idea of what it felt like. The noise got 
ever so much worse ; I opened my eyes in a 
hurry ; I could just see enough through the 
goggles to know that we had left the ground, 
which was my natural home, and were 
mounting up to heaven. I gave a sort of 
start — I had to. 

" Look out, Briggs ! " yelled King, bawling 
so loud that I could hear him in spite of the 
frightful din. " Don't move ! Keep steady ! 
She's moving like a bird." 

I didn't know about birds — they are as 
Nature made them, they were built to fly. 
Men weren't — I knew that the moment we 
were off the ground. It was no use con- 
cealing it — I would have given the fiver he 
had promised me to be back again. Bless 
that Dora Wilkinson ! 

It is no use asking me to attempt to de- 
scribe what happened ; I could not do it 
even for a hatful of money. All I can say is 
that it did not feel in the least as I thought it 
would. In a sort of a kind of a way, generally 
speaking, there was not any feeling about it 
at all. If I had not known that we were 
flying I doubt if I should have guessed it. 
There was the air against my face — plenty 
of it ; the noise of the engine — you never 
heard such a row — and the smell of it — at 
least, I suppose it was what I smelt ; I know 
I smelt something. And every now and again 
there was a sort of, I should call it, swirling 
motion, not offensive or unpleasant, but just 
as though you were slipping round something 
on nothing at all. Somehow it reminded 
me of what I used to feel on a swing ; but, 
contrary to what I expected, there was no 
jerk, or anything of that kind — just a sort 
of a kind of a — as I should term it — feeling 
of rushing through space. I should fancy 
that that's the sort of feeling a stone has 
when it's shot from a catapult. 

I was told afterwards that during those 
first few minutes we went round and round the 
aerodrome, doing all sorts of things as we 
went; going up and down — " vol-planing," 
they call it, I've been given to understand ; 



tvrA iLm ******* ****** 




Vol irlviii*— 20. 

mounting up in spirals, 
sliding down again, 
going along in a series 
of curves, and I don't 
know what besides* 
Very pretty it was to 
look at, they told me ; 
very wonderful* I 
dare say it was* But I 
just kept my eyes shut 
and hung on to my 
seat 3 to which I was 
strapped, and knew 
nothing at all about it* 

11 What do you think 
of it ? " bellowed King 
all of a sudden, He 
had a trick, I found, 
of doing sotnething to 
the engine which made 
the noise a little less } so 
that when he bellowed 
you could hear what 
he said, M How are you 
feeling ? We've been 
twice round the 
ground. Isn't this the 
sort of thing that does 
good ;o your soul ? " 

I don't know about 
my soul j I can only 
say it didn't do good to 
my stomach, especially 
just then , when the 
bottom seemed to have 
dropped out of some- 
thing, and we began 
to go down as if there 
was nothing there to 
hold us up. 

"Good Lord!" I 
screamed — I do not 
mind admitting that I 
screamed. u What's 
up ? We're falling ! " 

" ' Dipping/ Mr. 
Briggs, f dipping/ just 
to let them see how 
it's done. Now we're 
going to * mount/ to 
let them see how that's 
done, right up to the 
sky. Now for it ! " 

I don't know what 
he did— I didn't once 
know what he did to 
anything— but he did 
nibtme thing ; I was 
ilTY ©iftbd a Ifttle backhand 

*- *- 



up we began to go — up and up and up. That 
was the queerest feeling, that was ; it took 
my breath away. Presently he hollered out : — 

" We're nearly a mile up, Mr. Briggs — 
now we're over a mile. If you look down 
you'll see the people like black spots beneath 
us. Steady ! Hold on ! We're going to 
loop the loop." 

So ignorant was I about flying that I didn't 
even know what looping the loop was, until, 
in a manner of speaking, I actually did it. 
Again he did something to the car ; it turned, 
tipped a little forward from the back, went 
so fast that the air struck cold, in spite of the 
way I was padded, and then — I've been asked 
more than once to describe what it felt like, 
but I simply couldn't do it. This is fact, not 
fiction, this is. I know that the machine 
seemed to tilt back again — kept tilting till 
I was on my back, then on my head — and 
then goodness alone knows where I was. 

" Loop number one ! " shrieked a voice. 

I know it was Mr. King's voice ; I know he 
shrieked. I could not see him, and I was 
only just able to make out his words. At 
that time I didn't know what he meant — I 
only sort of wondered if I was still alive. 
Then on we went with another rush, and then 
it all happened all over again — back and 
back and back I went, till, as far as I could 
judge, I had been turned right round. It 
was all done so quickly that at the time I 
could not tell just what had been done ; then, 
before I could decide, on we whirled with 
another rush. 

I cannot say how often the trick was done. 
I have been told that we looped the loop 
more than a dozen times. We might have 
done it two hundred for all I could tell. By 
the time we had finished I was all in pieces, 
believe it or believe it not ; the inside seemed 
to have been taken right out of me. I was 
in such a state I didn't know which end of 
me was up. I knew then why I had been 
strapped to the seat. I had sense enough 
not to leave go of the handles, or I don't know 
what mightn't have happened, in spite of the 
straps. We were on the whirl again when 
Mr. King bellowed — I'm told that his voice 
was heard below : — 

" There, Mr. Briggs, that's a record. You've 
been making history. Now look out for 
yourself — we're going down." 

It was all very well for him to talk about 
looking out for myself. The whole thing 
had nothing to do with me — nothing could 
be more certain than that. 

The next thing I know — it is about the 
only thing I really did know — is that all of a 

sudden there were shouts and yells, and a 
regular hullabaloo, and a bump, and people 
came crowding round the car ; and then I 
realized — mistily, so to speak — that we were 
back again on the solid ground, and that the 
crowd was rushing forward and yelled them- 
selves hoarse with their hurrahs and their 
applause, and we were greeted as heroes. 

Heroes ! Yes, that's the word ! The 
crowd would have it that I was a hero, and 
I've never contradicted the statement — not 
once. And I'm not sure I was a hero when 
I come to think of it. Anyhow, people had 
got it into their heads that I was a hero ; and 
when a girl — I won't say to speak of the 
inferior sex only, because there may be some 
of them who are equal to men — has got a 
thing like that into her head it's not easy to 
get it out again — so there you are ! 

Dora Wilkinson, to use what I've heard 
described as an idiom, was simply all over me. 
That girl would have kissed my boots if I'd 
asked her, so full of admiration she was of 
my heroic qualities. Oh, yes, she was. I 
know what I'm talking about — no one better. 

And I did not throw my glove in her face, 
like the knight who jumped into the circus. 
No, I might have done, but I did not ; I've a 
tenderer heart than he had. Instead, I 
changed that fiver, which Mr. King forked up 
all right. And I took her to the movies. 
There was a picture there which was called 
" Out of the Jaws of Death." And when it 
began Dora took me by the hand, and she 
put up her handkerchief and she wiped her 
eyes. Then I knew that she was thinking of 
me. The very title of that picture touched 
her on the spot. It touched me, too. It was 
about a fireman who walked up ten flights of 
stairs in a burning house to save a kitten 
which someone had left behind. 

" Oh, Mr. Briggs," she said, when the film 
was done and the people were clapping, 
" what it must feel like to be a hero." 

I said nothing, but I squeezed her hand 
like she'd squeezed mine. And after the 
show was over I took her to a restaurant I 
know, and she had three mixed ices and two 
bath buns. 

" Never," she told me as she was enjoying 
them, " shall I forget this Bank Holiday as 
long as ever I live." 

I made no remark, because at that moment 
I was looking at the evening paper, in which 
it mentioned that Mr. Briggs had been Mr. 
King's companion in the wonderful daring 
feats he had performed that afternoon, and 
went on to as good as hint that of such stuff 
are our nubktft spirits, made. 







IN my opinion, batting 
is decidedly the phase of 
cricket which offers a 

player the greatest s cope for 

self- improvement. 

First - class bowlers 

are much more born 

than made, and the 

same may be said of 

super-excellent fields- 

meiij although a 

certain degree of skill 

at Adding is natural 

to the young and 

agiie, and improvement is almost 

entirely a matter of keen effort. 

But batting cannot l^e improved 

by a mere eager desire to ex<> 1 

matter how thoroughly a man may do 

his untutored 
test. Put a bat 
in liis hand and 
leave him to 
himself, and un- 
less he is one in 
ten thousand he 
will do nothing 
except contract 
bad liabits and 
worse style. 
This u leaving 

3y Google 


men to themselves " accounts for the very 
moderate form displayed by a great number 
of amateur batsmen. These are the men 
whose batting can be improved fifty per 
cent, if they " mark, learn, and inwardly 
digest " what I have to say in this article. 
The man who has been well coached by 
experts has nothing much to learn about 
handling a bat which can be put on paper, 




but he is in the decided minority, and it is to 
the majority that I appeal. Batsmen who 
have seldom done anything beyond trying to 
make runs in their own way can improve even 
more than fifty per cent, if they will make 
an honest attempt to handle the willow in the 
manner I shall describe. 

The first thing they must fix in their minds 
is that almost every action with a bat which 
can be called " real cricket " is not the 
natural action of a human being. It is 
artificial, and yet must be so constantly 
practised that art becomes second 
nature. This point is vital, and 
no progress can be made until it 
is thoroughly grasped and under- 
stood. In practice it works out 
to this — a batsman's mind is fully 
occupied at the wicket in gauging 
the type of ball he has to meet, 
and deciding upon the best method 
of dealing with it — there is no 
time in which to create an entirely 
fresh mental process on purpose 
to set in motion the muscles and 
limbs which actually make the 
stroke. This must be reduced by 
practice to a process which is 
almost mechanical, or a batsman 
cannot improve. He must have, so to speak, 
ready-made sets of actions perfected to deal 
with any sort of ball the bowler may deliver, 
and be ready on the instant to apply without 
hesitation just that set of actions his judg- 
ment tells him are required to score runs or 
save his wicket. 

" Quite so," the critic may remark. " But 
what is the use of throwing such a counsel of 
perfection at the head of the man who plays 
cricket every Saturday, with an occasional 
half-day of mid-week cricket, and an all-day 
match scarcely more than two or three times 
in a season ? There are tens of thousands of 
such cricketers, just the men who need your 
advice, but they cannot hope to memorize 
every stroke possible in a game of cricket." 
I agree, and will confine myself to general 
principles and examples wide in their 

I do not mind a great deal how a man 
stands at the wicket while the bowler is 
running up to deliver the ball. Any reason- 
able pose which suits him best, and enables 
him to see the ball from the moment it leaves 
the bowler's hand, will do well enough ; always 
provided it places the right foot behind the 
popping-crease and does not throw the weight 
of the body on the left leg. An ideal pose is 
an excellent thing, no doubt, but nothing is 




gained by straining after it. A batsman cslt 
very well afford to let Mother Nature hav< 
her way when deciding the position he adopts 
before the ball is bowled, if the attitude h€ 
takes up does not infringe the general con- 
ditions I have laid down. A similar latitude 
may be allowed in taking guard. " Middle * 1 
or " middle and leg," or even " leg stump, >1 
can be left to the individual fancy, but if he is 
inclined to favour " middle and off," or even 
" off stump," a batsman should remember he 
is apt to step needlessly in front of his wicket 
or else to leave an open space 
between his bat and his legs — 
the latter a fruitful cause of 
disaster, if only because the ball 
has plenty of room to cannon off 
the batsman's pads into his 
wicket. The essential point is 
that this preliminary attitude 
should be free from the least 
tendency towards rigidity. If a 
batsman does not feel perfectly 
easy and comfortable as he stands, 
bat in hand, waiting for the ball 
to be delivered, he must ex- 
periment until he ascertains the 
stance which suits his own 
physical characteristics. 
Having placed himself in an easy but not 
too unorthodox attitude, a batsman should 
feel that every muscle in his body is supple 
and ready, and that not so much as a single 
finger is stiff and tense. Standing thus, 
with the bat grasped firmly but not too 
strongly, the right hand somewhere about the 
middle of the handle, the batsman should be 
quite at home and ready for anything the 
bowler may send him. As soon as he can see 
the type of ball he has to deal with, the first 
thing he must decide is whether he will play 
it or hit it for runs. It is possible to do both 
in the one stroke, and batsmen who could be 
mentioned have a knack of " playing " 
forward quite as forcibly as some people 
drive a ball when they hit as hard as they 
can. But the ordinary batsman is only safe 
if he resolves to play balls he fears may hit 
his wicket, and attempts to score only off 
those deliveries which if clean missed will not 
end his innings. The golden rule in playing a 
ball is to keep the bat straight and the 
handle always so far forward that the stroke 
cannot send the ball up for a catch. The way 
to do this is to remember to keep the left 
shoulder from dropping and the left hand 
and elbow from pulling the bat into a slanting 
position across the wicket the instant the 
stroke is made. But the position of the feet 

um % Ln_>i i i ur 



really settles these points. If a man shifts 
his right foot in the direction of short-leg 
when a straight fast ball of good length ifl 
coming along, he will need to be a first-class 

contortionist if he is 
to bring a straight 
bat to bear on the 
ball He should ad- 
vance his left foot 
and play the ball for- 
ward, keeping the bat 
perfectly straight all 
the time. 

He cannot do this 
unless the backward 
lift which gives im- 
petus for the forward 
stroke is straight and true. And here let 
me caution players against the habit of 
waggling the bat about while the bowler is 
running up to deliver the ball. One straight 
lift clean back is the right idea, and the less 
preliminary flourishing there is the better. A 
slight play of the bat, just a few quick 
swings, scarcely more than inches in length 
and quite straight, will do no harm, and 
may help by making the batsman feel more 
alive and ready for the stroke. But any- 
thing more than this is a needless dis- 
traction which must be scrupulously avoided. 
As soon as the backward swing is com- 
plete the left foot must be thrown freely 
forward and the bat swung down perfectly 
straight, so that it meets the ball just in 
front of the striker's left leg, If the bat 
is pushed out farther than this before 
meeting the ball the result is a poky kind of 
stroke with no power in it, which often has 
a decided tendency to put the ball up. Avoid 
advancing the left leg too far when playing 
forward — it is neither pretty nor cricket to 

stretch out like 
a bayonet- 
fighter who has 
to put all the 
reach he can 
into one mighty 
thrust. Always 
strive to get 
the ball well on 
the middle of 
the bat when 
playing forward , and this can only be done 
well by judging correctly the line of the 
hall. No man can see the bat hit the ball 
when he plays forward, so it is very easy to 
understand why forward play makes such a 
great demand on judgment- 
It is also a very good reason against oveT 


son against over- 


doing forward play, especially on wickets 
other than first-class. On the best wickets, 
when sun and rain have not conspired to help 
the bowleg forward play is both safe and 
easy, But such wickets too seldom fall to 
the lot of those to whom this article is 
specially addressed, and they must be told 
that on w r ickets which help the bowler it is 
only too easy to carry forward play to excess. 
In fact, I think there is so much in this point 
that the average batsman would do well to 
pay rather more attention to back play than 
forward play. And if he intends to play 
back in accordance with modern methods 
he must move his right foot back in an oblique 
direction towards the wicket before the ball 
pitches, and get ready to make his stroke 
practically in front of his body. This is dead 
against that 
dear old law 
of the game 
which tied the 
right foot to 
a peg, except 
when it was 
moved to cut 
a ball ; but in 
spite of the 
fine back play 
by cricket 
giants of the 
past without 
ever moving 
the right foot, 
I must con- 
tend that the 
modern idea 
is test , even 
for born bats- 
men, and is 
even more to 
be preferred 

by those who were not brought into the 
world to shine in county or Test -Match 
cricket. Against almost any bowling on a 
dead wicket, and against slow to medium 
bowling on all wickets, the man who makes 
back play his pet idea has the tremendous 
advantage of being able to watch the ball 
right on to the bat, He can make every 
allowance for what it may do as it comes off 
the pitch, and can thus deal with ball after 
ball with certainty which he could only grope 
after if he played forward all the time. 

There is a stroke, called the '* half-cock 
stroke/' which is a species of compromise 
between forward and back play, and a very 
useful stroke iti^jip^ occasion. The great 





and only W, G, Grace played it muny a time 
and oft when in his prime, and no more need 
be said in favour of it. It is brought into 
action when a player finds himself too far 
committed to a forward stroke to draw 
back and yet feels sure that the ball is 
not one he should play forward at. 
This finds him in two minds— a very dan 
gerous condition for 
a cricketer — and 
the only way out is 
to stop his bat mid- 
way in the forward 
swing which marks 

the forward stroke and, by holding it 
still and perfectly upright, cover his 
wicket with the whole length and 
breadth of the willow. Then the ball 
will hit the bat and, with the ex- 
ception of the leg-glance, it is as well 
to note that this is the only stroke in 
cricket in which it is the right game 
to allow the ball to hit the bat instead 
of the bat hitting the ball. 

By now the defensive armour of 
our batsman is complete, and if he 
keeps his bat straight and plays 
forward, back, or "half-cock 3 ' according 
to the state of the wicket and the pace and 
length of the bowling, he will soon develop 
into an extremely difficult customer to dis- 
lodge — but he will make precious few runs. 

There is a maxim which asserts that, pro- 
vided a batsman remains long enough at the 
wicket, runs will come by themselves, but I 
should be very sorry indeed to commend this 
as an ideal worthy of any cricketer, and it is 
about the last maxim in the world the after- 
noon performer should pin his faith to. He 
must make runs, and to do this must master 
scoring-strokes. Here I am inclined to allow 
him a great deal more latitude as regards 
strokes than can be permitted in defence. 
If he can bat straight enough to keep good 
balls from spoiling the shape of his wicket, 
he may cultivate pet scoring-strokes of his 
own, provided they are not of the uppish or 
risky type. Suppose, for example, he has a 
good reach, a useful hand and eye, and plenty 
of strength. Such a player may well be fond 
of pulling a ball bang round from the off to 
the on, or even to square leg, greatly to the 
disgust of both the bowler and the cricket 
purist of the old school. It is not for me to 
say that such hefty pulling is the prettiest 
sight in cricket ; but if it is natural to a man 
he had far better do it than make painful 
attempts to perfect off-strokes for which he 
has no gift or liking. But he should get well 

over the ball when he steps across the wicket 

for pulling, and must make sure that his bat 

is well outside the ball when he swings for his 

smite. Bowling break - 

ting from the off is the 
kind which suits the 
hardened exponent of 
the pull, and against 
such bowling I advise 
any man who likes the 
stroke to pull as hard 
and often as he can— all 
along the " floor," 
please, and do not drop 
the right shoulder, or 
the bat will have a ten- 
dency to get under the 
ball and, instead of a 
boundary, mid-on will 
be presented with a 
jfl| rt p > catch, probably of the 

skier variety, 
5^ If, however, a hats- 

man is more ambitious, 
and desires to make off- 
stniki's in accordance 
with the established 
traditions of the game, 
I have nothing but praise for such a commend- 
able resolution. The cut is generally the 
first stroke mentioned when off -play is 
discussed, and following this precedent I feel 
compiled to say something about this most 
fascinating yet baffling stroke. The cut is 
a very difficult topic to deal with, simply 
because if a man can cut a ball the stroke 
will come natural to him, but if he has no 
natural aptitude for it no amount of coaching 
will ever give him even a tolerable proficiency. 
A good eye and wrist, and the gift of timing 
a ball to perfection — these must be present, 
or to cut a ball is impossible. The mechanism 
of the stroke is simple enough. When the 
right ball comes along to the off fairly fast 
on a good wicket — the cut is out of cricket 
on a slow pitch 



— t he right 
foot is thrown 
across the 
w i c k e t, and 
with a down- 
ward flick of 
the bat — a 
stroke with 
more wrist 
than anything 

else in it — the ball is cut anywhere from 
straight past point to fine through the slips, the 
dii^ctio^rVa^iiWraf coT|dpg .to the position of 




the ball the instant 
the stroke is made. If 
a man has a liking 
and a gift for the cut, 
be ought to ask his 
friends to bowl him 
halls suitable for the 
stroke when at prac- 
tice in the nets. This 
prill enable him to 
learn more about the 
stroke in a couple of 
*eeks than he could 
pickup in a 
whole sea- 
son of pro- 

If a man 
k forced to 
conclu de 
that he 
cannot cut 
a ball, he 
need not 

despair, preparing to drive 
not even 

of making a century in county cricket. But 
he must decide once and for all not to dally 
with the stroke. There must be no " hanging 
the bat out to dry " on the off-side of the 
wicket on the chance of bringing off the 
" if " stroke. Such play makes all the slip 
fieldsmen feel like spiders waiting for a fly 
whose wings can be heard buzzing near their 
net. No j if a man cannot make that true 
cut which sends the right foot across the 
wicket, he must rule the stroke clean out of 
his game, and set about perfecting an effective 
substitute. He should try what has been 
called " the cut with the left foot," a stroke 
made by throwing the left foot both across 
the wicket and a little forward and hitting 
the ball hard just as it is passing his body. 
This stroke is not anything like so ll wristy " 
and pretty as the cut proper, but as it enables 
a batsman to get infinitely more arm and 
even shoulder play to work, it is quite a 
good hit for a man whose wrist is not strong 
and supple enough to bring the cut proper 
into his list of scoring strokes. Played 
I properly, this stroke cracks the ball away 
I nt a rare pace, and is safe enough every time, 
I provided care is taken to get nicely over the 
ball. But this must not be overdone, or 
the ball may be simply punched hard almost 
straight on to the ground. At any rate, 
this shot to the off , made by moving the left 
fuot at a ball which might be cut by moving 

the right foot, is an alternative which demands 
careful attention and practice from any 
batsman who knows his own limitations 
well enough to feel sure that the cut is no 
stroke for him, The stroke is really a half 
cut, half drive, and is best brought into 
execution to score off a ball pitched rather 
short and fairly wide of the wicket. 

The drive is the next stroke I propose to 
discuss, and as regards its action, I may say 
at once that any drive is a forward stroke 
played with more freedom and vigour than 
is the rase when forward play for purely 
defensive purposes is the idea. Some players 
bat so freely that it is difficult to say when 
their forward play ceases and their driving 
begins. But the man whose batting stands 
in need of improvement to any considerable 
extent will find that the drive calls for a 
special effort. The backward lift of the bat 
must be more decided, and the stroke alto- 
gether more determined and resolute than 
that which suffices for his forward play. 
And when he sets out to drive, a batsman must 
remember that he has to get to the pitch of 
the ball. If the bowler has been good enough 
to pitch one up far enough, the batsman 
simply stays at home and drives it without 
moving from his ground ; but if the hall is 
a little too short, the batsman must get out 
to it and catch it on the pitch. And if he 
does run out to drive the batsman must 
consider the wicket-keeper as dead for the 
time being, as nothing can be more fatal than 
a half-hearted attempt to dash out and drive, 

Another point 
which applies to 
all drives is that 
the ball must 
travel in the 
direction in which 
the batsman's 
arm and shoulder 
are pointing at 
the instant the 
stroke is made. 
This means that 
the left leg must 
be thrown for- 
ward somewhat 
to the right for 
an off - drive, to 
the left for an on- 
drive ; it is only 
thrown straight 
forward when a 
straight ball the 
correct length for 

driving happen, a >i^kk 10 n,., 




tc come along. It is important to note this 
advice^ as batsmen who play with a straight 
enough bat on the defensive are apt to throw 
their left leg straight forward when attempting 
to drive a ball pitched off the wicket. The 
result is one of three things — either a clean 
misSj a stroke with no power in It, or a sliced 
kind of hit which puts up a catch with plenty 
of spin on it. 

Leg-hitting in the very best cricket is 
seldom or never seen nowadays. Modern 
wickets and bowling are both too accurate 
for the real old-fashioned smite to leg to be 
seen, except at the rarest intervals, in first- 
class play. But both wickets and bowlers 
provide chances on the leg-side to batsmen 
of the type this article is written to help, 
and when they see a nice ball on the leg-side 
coming along they should advance the left 
leg and make a lusty hit, with the bat held 
at just the angle which experience has taught 
them is best adapted to their own style. 

The prettiest leg-hit brings a nearly per- 
pendicular bat to bear on the ball as it flashes 
past, but there is a very effective species of 
sweep to leg made with the hat 
held almost as a mower holds a 
scythe, And if a man finds 
he can score runs with the 
" sweep," but cannot rely on the 
more elegant stroke- — well, my 
advice to him is, " Score runs, 
elegantly if you can, but score 
runs." He cannot do this^ I 
may say, unless he brings his 
head and body well round when 
hitting to leg. It is, however, 
wrong to put so much into it 
that the right foot is dragged 
over the crease, because this 
throws the batsman off his 
balance and spoils the accuracy 
of the stroke, to say nothing of 
the chance of being stumped, a 
rather remote contingency, I 
admit, as wicket-keepers who 
can gather a leg-ball rapidly 
and neatly enough to stump a 
man are not often seen operating 
behind batsmen whose game 
can be improved fifty per cent. 

The glance to leg is a stroke which scores 
plenty of runs, and is as simple as you like in 
theory. It is made by simply holding the 
bat obliquely in front of the ball, and allowing 
the leather to hit the bat and slip off in the 
direction of fine leg, A fastish bowler, with a 
natural off-break, is helpful when this stroke 
is exploited , and a good-length ball from a 


bowler of this type, which pitches either in 
line with the leg-stump or just outside it, 
can be glanced to leg with great effect. It is 
possible enough to serve even a good -length 
straight ball in this way, but if my readers 
are guided by me they will always present 
the whole width of the bat to such a delivery* 
Nerve and judgment are the qualities most 
in demand when it comes to glancing a ball, 
and the stroke is one which has special points 
to recommend it to batsmen whose defence 
is sound, but whose style is rather cramped 
as regards scoring-strokes. I should not call 
it easy — far from it — but any ordinary 
cricketer who fancies the glance to leg and 
practises it consistently should find it a 
valuable means of adding to his score. 

Back play for scoring purposes is not nearly 
so difficult as is generally supposed, and the 
hook is by far the- most profitable stroke to 
exploit in this department of the game. To 
hook a ball properly a man should step back 
with his right foot towards his wicket, and, 
with a quick action of the right forearm and 
wrist, the left hand acting as a guide only, 
clip the ball round to the on with 
a horizontal bat. The beauty of 
this stroke, as in all back play, is 
that the ball can be watched 
right on to the blade of the bat, 
and if at the last possible frac- 
tion of time a scoring - stroke 
does not appear safe or feasible, 
it is the easiest thing in the 
world to change the direction of 
the bat and play the ball in the 
usual way, A ball must be 
destitute of break or else break- 
ing from the off if it is to be 
hooked successfully, as the 
golden rule which tells a batsman 
never to try to score against the 
break of a ball applies with par- 
ticular force to the hook stroke. 
It is possible to do amazing things 
with the hook, but the best ball 
for it is one a little shorty made 
shorter still by the backward step, 
and breaking from the off. Such 
a ball, even if fairly fast, can 
be hooked with impunity, but the faster it is 
the greater will be the demand on the eye 
and pluck of the batsman. Really fast 
bowling on a good wicket cannot be hooked by 
ordinary mortals , nor can they play back to 
such trundling, but with this exception 
back play and the hook stroke will prove both 
pleasant and profitable to the batsman who 
wants to improve his game bv fifty per cent. 





Will Owen 

ONDERFUL improvement," 
said Mr Jack Mills. "Show 
*cm to mc a^ain." 

Mr. Simpson took his pipe 
from his mouth and, parting 
his lips, revealed his new 

" And you talk better/" said Mr. Mills, 
taking his glass from the counter and emptying 
it ; " you ain't got that silly lisp you used to 
have. What does your missis think of 'em ? " 
" She hasn't seen ! em yet," said the other, 
*' I had ? em put in at dinner-time, I ate my 
dinner with 'em," 

Mr. Mills expressed his admiration. (t If 
it wasn't for your white hair and whiskers 
you'd look thirty again;* he said, slowly. 
" How old are you ? " 

"Fifty-three; 1 said his friend. "If it 
wasn't for being laughed at, IVe often thought 
of having my whiskers shaved off and my 
hair dyed black. People think I'm sixty." 

M Or seventy," continued Mr, Mills. " What 
does it mAtter, people laughing ? YouVe 
got a splendid head of air, and it would dye 

Mr. Simpson shook his head and, ordering 
a couple of glasses of bitter, attacked his in 

u It might be done gradual/' he said, after 
a long interval, v It don't do anybody good 
at the warehouse to look old," 

VaL ilviiL— 31. Copyright, 19x4, 

" Make a clean job of it," counselled Mr, 
Mills, who was very fond of a little cheap 
excitement, " Get it over and done with. 
You've got good features, and you'd look 
splendid clean -shaved," 

Mr. Simpson smiled faintly- 

" Only on Wednesday the barmaid here 
was asking after you" pursued Mr, Mills. 

Mr. Simpson smiled again, 

11 She says to me, * Where's Gran'pa ? ' she 
says, and when I says, haughty like, * Who do 
you mean ? J she says, i Father Christmas ! ' 
If you was to tell her that you are only 
fifty-three, she'd laugh in your face." 

" Let her laugh," said the other, sourly, 

sr Come out and get it off," said Mr* Mills, 
earnestly. " There's a barber's in Bird 
Street ; you could go in the little back room, 
where he charges a penny more, and g*t it 
done without anybody being a bit the wiser." 

He put his hand on Mr. Simpson's shoulder, 
and that gentleman, with a glare in the 
direction of the fair but unconscious offender, 
rose in a hypnotized fashion and followed him 
out* Twice on the way to Bird Street Mr. 
Simpson paused and said he had altered his 
mind, and twice did the propulsion of Mr. 
Milk's right hand , and his flattering argument, 
make him alter it again. 

It was a matter of relief to Mr, Simpson 
that the barber took hi* batrjetions without 

j^ *;;^ indeedj 



that an elderly man of seventy-eight had 
enlisted his services for a similar purpose not 
two months before, and had got married six 
weeks afterwards. Age of the bride given as 
twenty-four, but said to have looked older. 
, A snip of the scissors, and six inches of 
white beard fell to the floor. For the first 
time in thirty years Mr. Simpson felt a razor 
on his face. Then his hair was cut and 
shampooed ; and an hour later he sat gazing 
at a dark-haired, clean-shaven man in the 
glass who gazed back at him with wondering 
eyes — a lean-jawed, good-looking man, who, 
in a favourable light, might pass for forty. 
He turned and met the admiring eyes of Mr. 

" What did I tell you ? " inquired the 
latter. " You look young enough to be your 
own son." 

" Or grandson," said the barber, with 
professional pride. 

Mr. Simpson got up slowly from the chair 
and, accompanied by the admiring Mr. Mills, 
passed out into the street. The evening was 
young, and, at his friend's suggestion, they 
returned to the Plume of Feathers. 

" You give the order," said Mr. Mills, " and 
see whether she recognizes you." 

Mr. Simpson obeyed. 

" Don't you know him ? " inquired Mr. 
Mills, as the barmaid turned away. 
- " I don't think I have that pleasure," said 
the girl, simpering. 

" Gran'pa's eldest boy," said Mr. Mills. 

" Oh ! " said the girl. " Well, I hope he's 
a better man than his father, then." 

" What do you mean by that ? " demanded 
Mr. Simpson, painfully conscious of his 
friend's regards. 

" Nothing," said the girl, " nothing. Only 
we can all be better, can't we ? He's a nice 
old gentleman ; so simple." 

" Don't know you from Adam," said Mr. 
Mills, as she turned away. " Now, if you ask 
me, I don't believe as your own missis will 
recognize you." 

" Rubbish," said Mr. Simpson. " My wife 
would know me anywhere. We've been 
married over thirty years. Thirty years of 
sunshine and shadow together. You're a 
single man, and don't understand these 

" P'r'aps you're right," said his friend. 
" But it'll be a bit of a shock to her, anyway. 
What do you say to me stepping round and 
breaking the news to her ? It's a bit sudden, 
you know. She's expecting a white-haired 
old gentleman, not a black-haired boy." 

Mr, Simpson looked a bit uneasy. " P'r'aps 

I ought to have told her first," he -murmured, 
craning his neck to look in the glass at the 
back of the bar. 

" I'll go and put it right for you," said his 
friend. " You stay here and smoke your 

He stepped out briskly, but his pace 
slackened as he drew near the house. 

" I — I — came — to see you about your 
husband," he faltered, as Mrs. Simpson 
opened the door and stood regarding 

" What's the matter ? " she exclaimed, 
with a faint crv. " What's happened to 
him ? " 

" Nothing," said Mr. Mills, hastily. 
" Nothing serious, that is. I just came 
round to warn you so that you will be able 
to know it's him." 

Mrs. Simpson let off a shriek that set his 
ears tingling. Then, steadying herself by 
the wall, she tottered into the front room, 
followed by the discomfited Mr. Mills, and 
sank into a chair. 

" He's dead ! " she sobbed. " He's dead ! " 

" He is not," said Mr. Mills. 

" Is he much hurt ? Is he dying ? " gasped 
Mrs. Simpson. 

" Only his hair," said Mr. Mills, clutching 
at the opening. " He is not hurt at all." 

Mrs. Simpson dabbed at her eyes and sat 
regarding him in bewilderment. Her twin 
chins were still quivering with emotion, but 
her eyes were beginning to harden. " What 
are you talking about ? " she inquired, in a 
raspy voice. 

" He's been to a hairdresser's," said Mr. 
Mills. " He's 'ad all his white whiskers cut 
off, and his hair cut short and dyed black. 
And, what with that and his new teeth, I 
thought — he thought — p'r'aps you mightn't 
know him when he came home." 

" Dyed ? " cried Mrs. Simpson, starting to 
her feet. 

Mr. Mills nodded. " He looks twenty years 
younger," he said, with a smile. " He'd 
pass for his own son anywhere." 

Mrs. Simpson's eyes snapped. " Perhaps 
he'd pass for my son," she remarked. 

" Yes, easy," said the tactful Mr. Mills. 
" You can't think what a difference it's 
made to him. That's why I came to see you 
— so you shouldn't be startled." 

" Thank you," said Mrs. Simpson. " I'm 
much obliged. But you might have spared 
yourself the trouble. I should know my 
husband anywhere," 

" Ah, thar/s what yon," retorted Mr. 
Mills, with a smile ; " but the barmaid at the 



: r i 


Plume didn f t. That's what made me come 
to you." 

Mrs. Simpson gazed at him* 

** I says to myself," continued Mr. Mills, 
4it lf she don't know him, I'm certain his 
missis won't , and I'd better— — ' " 

4i You'd better go/' interrupted his hostess. 

Mr. Mills started j and then, with much 
dignity, stalked after her to the door, 

kl As to your story, I don't believe a word 
af it," said Mrs. Simpson. " Whatever elso 
my husband is, he isn't a fool, and he'd no 
more think of cutting off his whiskers and 
dyeing his hair than you would of telling the 

M Seeing is believing/ 3 said the offended Mr. 
Mills, darkly. 

** I'll wait till I do see j and then I shaVt 
believe/' was the reply. " It is a put-up 
job between you and some other precious 
idiot, 1 expect. But you can t deceive me. 
If your black-haired friend comes here, he'll 
get it , I can tell you." 

She slammed the door on his protests and, 
returning to the parlour, gazed fiercely into 
the glass on the mantelpiece. It reflected 
sixteen stone of honest English womanhood, 
a thin wisp of yellowish-grey hair, and a pair 

of faded eyes peering through clumsy 

H Son, indeed ! ,? she said, her lips quivering. 
w You wait till you come home, my lord ! " 

Mr, Simp son , with some forebodings, 
returned home an hour later. To a man who 
loved peace and quietness the report of the 
indignant Mr* Milk was not of a reassuring 
nature. He hesitated on the doorstep for a 
few seconds while he fumbled for his key, 
and then, humming unconcernedly, hung his 
hat in the passage and walked into the parlour. 

The astonished scream of his wife warned 
him that Mr, Mills had by no means exag- 
gerated. She rose from her seat and a crouch- 
ing by the fireplace^ regarded him with a 
mixture of anger and dismay. 

" It — it's all right, Milly/' said Mr. Simpson, 
with a smile that revealed a dazzling set of 

" Who are you ? '* demanded Mrs. Simpson. 
" How dare you call me by my Christian 
name ! It's a good job for you my husband 
is not here/' 

" He wouldn't hurt me/' said Mr. Simpson, 
with an attempt at facetiousness. " He's the 
best friend I ever had, Why, we slept in the 






11 1 don't want any of your nonsense/' said 
Mrs, Simpson, 4t You get out of my house 
before I send for the police. How dare you 
come into a respectable woman's house in 
this fashion ? Be off with you/* 

" Now, look here, Millv- — -" began Mr. 

His wife drew herself up to her full height 
of four feet eleven. 

" I've had a hair-cut and a shave/' pursued 
her husband; u also I've had my hair 
restored to its natural colour. But Vm the 
same man, and you know it." 

w I know nothing of the kind/ 5 said his wife, 
doggedly. " I don't know you from Adam. 
I've never seen you before, and I don't want 
to see you again. You go away/ 1 

*' Vm your husband, and my place is at 
home/ 3 replied Mr. Simpson. ** A man can 
have a shave if he likes, can't he ? Where's 
my supper ? JS 

" Go on/' said his wife. 4t Keep it up. 
But be careful my husband don't come in 
and catch you, that's all," 

Mr + Simpson gazed at her fixedly, and then, 
with an impatient exclamation, walked into 
the small kitchen and began to set the supper, 
A joint of cold beef, a jar of pickles, bread, 

butter, and cheese made an appetizing 
display. Then he took a jug from the dresser 
and descended to the cellar. 

A musical trickling fell on the car of Mrs. 
Simpson as she stood at the parlour door, 
and drew her stealthily to the cellar. The 
key was in the lock, and, with a sudden 
movement, she closed the door and locked it. 
A sharp cry from Mr. Simpson testified to his 

" Now I'm off for the police/ 1 cried his 

t( Don't be a fool/ 1 shouted Mr, Simpson, 
tugging wildly at the door-handle. ** Open 
the door." 

Mrs. Simpson remained silent, and her 
husband resumed his efforts until the door- 
knob, unused to such treatment, came off 
in his hand. A sudden scrambling noise on 
the cellar stairs satisfied the listener that he 
had not pulled it off intentionally. 

She stood for a few moments, considering. 
It was a stout door anil opened inwards. She 
took her bonnet from its nail in the kitchen 
and, walking softly to the street door, set of! 
to lay the case before a brother who lived a 
few doors away, 

Uffl^SJ'^Ji'f'ilfiHIifit'tboper, when she 



had finished. " Still, it might be worse ; he's 
got the barrel o' beer with him." 

" It's not Bill/' said Mrs. Simpson. 

Mr. Cooper scratched his whiskers and 
r- looked at his wife. 

" She ought to know/' said the latter. 

" We'll come and have a look at him/' said 
Mr. Cooper. 
j Mrs. Simpson pondered, and eyed him 

I dubiously. 

11 Come in and have a bit of supper," she 
said at last. " There's a nice piece of beef and 

" And Bill — I mean the stranger — sitting 
on the beer-barrel," said Mr. Cooper, gloomily. 

" You can bring your beer with you," said 
his sister, sharply. " Come along." 

Mr. Cooper grinned, and, placing a couple 
of bottles in his coat pockets, followed the two 
ladies to the house. Seated at the kitchen 
table, he grinned again, as a persistent 
drumming took place on the cellar door. His 
wife smiled, and a faint, sour attempt in the 
same direction appeared on the face of Mrs. 

" Open the door ! " bellowed an indignant 
voice. " Open the door ! " 

Mrs. Simpson, commanding silence with an 
uplifted finger, proceeded to carve the beef. 
A rattle of knives and forks succeeded. 

" O — pen — the — door ! " said the voice 

" Not so much noise," commanded Mr. 
Cooper. " I can't hear myself eat." 

" Bob ! " said the voice, in relieved accents, 
" Bob ! Come and let me out." 

Mr. Cooper, putting a huge hand over his 
mouth, struggled nobly with his feelings. 

" Who are you calling ' Bob ' ? " he 
demanded, in an unsteady voice. " You keep 
yourself to yourself. I've heard all about you. 
You've got to stay there till my brother-in- 
law comes home." 

" It's me, Bob," said Mr. Simpson — 
" Bill." 

" Yes, I dare say," said Mr. Cooper ; " but 
if you're Bill, why haven't you got Bill's 
voice ? " 

" Let me out and look at me," said Mr. 

There was a faint scream from both ladies, 
followed by protests. 

M Don't you be alarmed," said Mr. Cooper, 
reassuringly. " I wasn't born yesterday. I 
don't want to get a crack over the head." 

" It's all a mistake, Bob," said the prisoner, 
appealingly. " I just had a shave and a hair- 
cut and — and a little hair-dye. If you open 
the door you'll know me at once." 

" How would it be," said Mr. Cooper, 
turning to his sister, and speaking with 
unusual distinctness — " how would it be if 
you opened the door, and just as he put his 
head out I hit it a crack with the poker ? " 

" You try it on," said the voice behind the 
door, hotly. " You know who I am well 
enough, Bob Cooper. I don't want any more 
of your nonsense. Milly has put you up to 
this ! " 

" If your wife don't know you, how do you 
think I can ? " said Mr. Cooper. " Now, look 
here; you keep quiet till my brother-in-law 
comes home. If he don't come home perhaps 
we shall be more likely to think you're him. 
If he's not home by to-morrow morning 

we H y sk I H'shl Don't you know 

there's ladies present ? " 

" That settles it," said Mrs. Cooper, speaking 
for the first time. " My brother-in-law 
would never talk like that." 

" I should never forgive him if he did," 
said her husband, piously. 

He poured himself out another glass of 
beer and resumed his supper with relish. 
Conversation turned on the weather, and from 
that to the price of potatoes. Frantic efforts 
on the part of the prisoner to join in the 
conversation and give it a more personal turn 
were disregarded. Finally he began to kick 
with monotonous persistency on the door. 

" Stop it ! " shouted Mr. Cooper. 

" I won't," said Mr. Simpson. 

The noise became unendurable. Mr. 
Cooper, who had just lit his pipe, laid it on the 
table and looked round at his companions. 

" He'll have the door down soon," he said, 
rising. " Halloa ; there ! " 

" Halloa ! " said the other. 

" You say you're Bill Simpson," said Mr. 
Cooper, holding up a forefinger at Mrs. 
Simpson, who was about to interrupt. " If 
you are, tell us something you know that only 
you could know ; something we know, so as 
to identify you. Things about your past." 

A strange noise sounded behind the door. 

" Sounds as though he is smacking his lips," 
said Mrs. Cooper to her sister-in-law, who was 
eyeing Mr. Cooper restlessly. 

" Very good," said Mr. Simpson ; " I agree. 
Who is there ? " 

" Me and my wife and Mrs. Simpson," 
said Mr. Cooper. 

" He is smacking his lips," whispered Mrs. 
Cooper. " Having a go at the beer, perhaps." 

" Let's go back fifteen years," said Mr. 
Simpson, in meditative tones. " Do you 
remember that girl with copper-coloured hair 
that used to live in John Street ? " 



"No!" said Mr + 
Cooper, loudly and 

" Do you remember 
coming to me one day — 
two days after Valentine 
Day , it was — white as 
chalk and shaking like a 
leaf j and — " 

"No!" roared Mr, 

" Very well, I must try 
something else, then/' 
said Mr, Simpson, 
phi los ophica II y . * ' Ca rr y 
your mind back ten 
years, Bob Cooper— — " 

Mock here!" said 
Mr. Cooper , turning round 
with a ghastly smile, 
" We'd better * get off 
home, Mary, I don't like 
interfering in other 
people' s conce r n s . Never 

" You stay where you 
are," said his wife, 

(i Ten years/' repeated 
the voice behind the door, 
" There was a new bar- 
maid at the Crown, and 
one night you " 

4t If I listen to anv 

more of this nonsense I 

shall burst/* remarked 



Mr, Cooper, plaintively. 


" Go on/ 7 prompted 

Mrs* Cooper, grimly. 


" One night 

" Never mind/ 3 said 

Mr* Simpson. u It doesn't 

matter. But does he 

identify me ? Because if <* 

not I've got a lot more 

things 1 can try." 

The harassed Mr. Cooper looked around 

" How do you expect me to recognize 
you " he began, and stopped suddenly, 

(< Go back to your courting days, then/' 
said Mr. Simpson, " when Mrs, Cooper wasn't 
Mrs. Cooper, but only wanted to be." 

Mrs. Cooper shivered ; so did Mr. Cooper. 

" And you came round to me for advice," 
pursued Mr. Simpson, in reminiscent 
accents, " because there was another girl 
you wasn't sure of, and you didn't want to 
lose them both. Do you remember sitting 
with the two photographs — one on each 



knee — and trying hard to make up your 
mind ? " 

4i Wonderful imagination/' said Mr, Cooper, 
smiling in a ghastly fashion at his wife. 
11 Hark at him I " 

" I am harking," said Mrs. Cooper, 

l * Am I Bill Simpson or am I not ? " 
demanded Mr, Simpson. 

" Bill was always fond of his joke," said 
Mr. Cooper, with a glance at the company 
that would have moved an oyster. M He was 
always fond of making up things. You* re like 
him in that. What do you think, Hilly ? " 

"IIMGAERSMJ : fiJsMfcfiiilGAWl Mrs, Simpson, 





" Tell us something about her/' said 
Mr. Cooper, hastily. 

" 1 daren't," said Mr, Simpson. " Doesn't 
that prove I'm her husband ? But I'll tell 
you things about your wife, if you like." 

" You dare ! " said Mrs. Cooper, turning 
crimson, as she realized what confidences 
might have passed between husband and 
wife. " If you say a word of your lies about 
ine, I don't know what I won't do to you/' 

4i Very well, I must go on about Bob, then 
— till he recognizes me," said Mr. Simpson, 
patiently, u Carry your mind- " 

" Open the door and let him out/* shouted 

Mr. Cooper, turning to 
his sister. li How can I 
recognize a man through 
a deal door ? H 

Mrs, Simpson, after 
a little hesitation, 
handed him the key, 
and the next moment 
her husband stepped 
out and stood blinking 
in the gas-light. 

" Do you recognize 
mc ?" he asked, turning 
to Mr, Cooper, 

14 I do," said that 
gentleman, with a 
ferocious growl. 

u I'd know you any- 
where/ 1 said Mrs. 
Cooper, with emphasis , 
" And you ? " said 
Mr. Simpson j turning 
to his wife. 

"You're not my 
husband," she said, 

11 Are y o u sure ? " 
inquired Mr, Cooper. 
11 Certain." 
11 Very good, then," 
said her brother. " If 
he's not your husband 
Fm going to knock his 
head off for telling them 
lies about me." 

He sprang forward 
and, catching Mr, Simp- 
son by the collar, shook 
him violently until his 
head banged against the 
dresser. The next 
moment the hands of 
s Mrs. Simpson were in 

the hair of Mr. Cooper, 
^Howdare you knock 
my husband about ! " she screamed, as Mr. 
Cooper let go and caught her fingers. " You've 
hurt him/' 

M Concussion, I think " said Mr, Simpson, 
with great presence of mind. 

His wife helped him to a chair and, wetting 
her handkerchief, tenderly bathed the dyed 
head, Mr, Cooper, breathing hard, stood by 
watching until his wife touched him on the arm. 
11 Ymi mhih: off home," she said, in a hunl 
voice, " You ain't wanted. Are you going to 
stay here all night ? " 

"I shouldI>rti|inairf/6iiflaid Mr. Cooper, 


Jottings From My Diary. 



WOMAN'S diary, we are told, 
is her greatest confidant. She 
hugs it to her breast with 
ecstasy, for it shares her most 
secret thoughts. She pours 
upon its pages her ho pes , fears, 
and aspirations ; her tempta- 
tions, troubles, and trials ; her loves and her 
hates. For another to peep at its pages is 
to court enmity. 

I must frankly confess, however, that I 
have no such feelings. Perhaps it is because I 
have not religiously kept a diary, or maybe 
I have so little to disclose. There are mile- 
stones in my life which have been duly 
recorded — events, days, and periods which, 
as I read of them, flood my memory with 
recollections — mostly pleasant, few regret- 

Of course, I have had my dreams, but 
practically no troubles and trials. Most 
things seem to have gone quite smoothly 
for me, and I count myself lucky in having 
my husband to direct and produce our plays, 
and theatrical godfathers in the persons of 
the late Mr. Wilson Barrett and the ever- 
present Mr. George Bernard Shaw. That 
Itfing so, I feel gratified, rather than jealous, 
that you should wish to peep at my diary. 
My only fear is that its pages, while pleasing 
to my vanity, may provide commonplace 
reading for others. 

May I, however, take you back in the first 
place to some of my earlier entries recorded 
in the days when I was a schoolgirl at Chelten- 
ham ? For even in those days I had my 
theatrical aspirations, although none of my 
people were at all theatrically inclined. 
Indeed, it was not until the Benson Company 
came down to Cheltenham that I had an 

opportunity of gratifying my desire to see a 
real play, 

Even at that time, however, my parents 
must, I think, have been impressed with my 
love for play-acttng. They had allowed me 
to study elocution under Hermann Yezin^ and 
when quite a child I loved reciting. My 
father, with a view to training my memory , 
was wont to bribe me with monetary gifts 
to repeat Shakespeare and Milton, and I 
used to go and listen with delight to the 
Brandons and Mrs. Albert Barker— my 
husband's mother — long before I ever dreamt 
of going on the stage. 

In those days, however, my mind, like that 
of many other girls, I am afraid, was filled 
with romantic ideals. I wanted to be a 
tragedy queen to march about in magnificent 
attire, relating, in heartrending accents, the 
story of my woes. I used to buy old books 
about Mrs. Siddons and take them for long, 
lonely walks into the country, and dream of 
being great and splendid. 

Of course, like Helen Faucit, I used to pore 
over Shakespeare, and long to be Juliet and 
Imogen, and, above all, Lady Macbeth, and 
so on ; but I suppose most girls with theatrical 
inclinations get these fits. I really was 
passionately fond of Shakespeare, however, 
and I thought the summit of my ambition was 
reached when I was allowed to come to London 
and endeavour to qualify for the stage. 

My diary tells me I went cheerfully through 
the dreary work of voice-production, and how 
excited I was when I appeared as Lady 
Macbeth at the Siddons's Memorial Perform- 
ance at St. George's Hall, and ultimately 
became connected mih the Elizabethan Stage 
an^j^^fp^^^^^^Societies, and 

worked wit 


Uiam Poel. 



And it also 
teils me that 
it was t he 

first occasion 
n which I 
became of 
interest 1 
one of my 
Mr, George 
Shaw. At 
that time he 
was acting 
as dramatic 
critic for the 
Sat ur day 
Review, and 
at the risk of 
being accused 
of egotism I 
should like 
to quote here 





K- AY/" 

/*iJp Jfirroi'a'JbdicJ. 

what he wrote of my performance on that 

11 I saw," he said, " a girl who did not know 
how to act or speak blank verse or do any- 
thing except how it ought not to be done. 
Still, she gave a remarkable performance, all 
the same. I advised her to go into the pro- 
vinces for ten years and learn how to act. One 
day there walked into the room where I was 
at work a lady, quite unknown to me, who said, 
1 Well, the ten years are up, I have done 
what you told me. Now, what are you going 
to do for me ? ' ,J 

That is the story of how I first came into 
direct contact with Mr. Bernard Shaw. He 
certainly did a lot for me, for it was he who 
gave me my chance in (i Man and Superman '" 
and "John' Bull's Other Island' 1 — plays which 
enabled me to add so largely to my reputation- 
v»i, ML-M, 

Perhaps I may be allowed 

to digress for a moment to 

remark that with Mr* Shaw 

neither theatrical good looks 

nor theatrical good manners 

are thought of as everything. 

Nevertheless, to play a Shaw 

heroine demands every charm, 

every wile, and every feminine 

blandishment, Shakespeare's 

Juliet has only to lean over a 

balcony in spangled cap for Romeo 

to liken her to the stars above and 

the flowers beneath, and to wish 

he were a glove upon her hand. 

But poor Ann Whitfield, in <4 Man 

and Superman/' for instance, has 

to be just as bewitching as she 

possibly can and make love to her 

future husband in the person of 

John Tanner in ordinary dress, 

while the man she is determined 

to marry sits clown and discusses 

the ethical value of her appearance. 

■1 ■ I 1 * ' ^ * I I 

Ann Whitfield, perhaps, was my 
favourite role, although I glorified 
in Nan, in "The Tragedy of Nan," 
by John Masefield, and t( The 
Witch/' by Wiers Jenssem Next 
to Ann, however, I think I like 
Margaret Knox, in " Fanny's First Play." It 
was a delightful part, I remember, when 
the play was first produced in 191 1, Mr. 
Bernard Shaw refused to disclose his identity 
as the author, He wrapped himself in mystery, 
and although we begged him to reveal himself 
he would not. The consequence was that 
,some extraordinary stories went about con- 
cerning the authorship of the play. On one 
occasion a well - known lady came into my 
dressing-room after the play in great triumph, 
*' I have solved the mystery, 1 ' she said. 
* l It is dear to me that the introduction of 
the third art and the epilogue were written 
by Bernard Shaw, The first act obviously is 
by Granville Barker, and the second act by 
Cicely Hamilton." 

What a mixed collaboration ! 

I recall, too another !:.ttle story concerning 





young man in the gallery. We are 
learning that there is more satisfying as 
well at better work to be done upon the 
stage than to wear a tin crown and to trail 
a velvet robe. 

I do wish young actors and actresses 
would realize this necessity for versatility, 
and lose the Idea tliat the public always 
want the same thing. Both my husband 
and myself have, for instance, often 
noticed that there is one idea which seems 
curiously to prevail among actors even now. 
It is that the public want and only want 
to see them making love. Our belief is. 

TAKEN IS 1900 
Ffwtv. bp LuwIqh nterevicvptt Company. 

Margaret, When I first played 
the part I wondered how the 
audience would receive the attitude 
of the girl when she breaks away 
from the conventions of her 
training, gets into a bus from a 
prayer meeting, goes to a theatre 
and a dance, and gets into a police 
brawl. The question was answered 
for me by a friend who was sitting 
in the stalls and overheard a con- 
versation between a mother and 
two daughters. One of the girls 
said to her mother at the end of 
the second act : " But why did she 
get into the bus and go to the 
theatre?" "Oh," was the mother's 
reply, " that is to show' you what 
not to do ; my dear." 

It 1ms been my one great wish 
that throughout my professional 
career 1 may play the widest variety 
of roles, and in plays of the most 
divergent character. Variety is 
the salt of life. An actress is 
often tempted to play one type of 
part, and gradually she falls into 
the rut of impersonating herself 
and her peculiarities. 

So far as we actresses are con- 
cerned, we have a higher mission 
than to merely look pretty or to 
make people crv, or to dazzle the 

gilized by OoOgle 






BBir-\.: . ■ ,* 

however, that the drama can deal 
with anything — character , politics, 
citizenship, family lift, drainage. 
if you will. Even in rehearsal 
of one of Shaw's plays 1 re- 
member hearing the opinion 
1 if iinu go* u\ earnest actor, (l I 
am. doubtful about the rest 
of the play/' said he, " but I 
will make it all right when 
the love scene comes on.' 1 
I am afraid, however, 1 
am departing from the 
sequence of my diary, and 
I would like to go back for 
a moment to the days 
shortly after my first ap- 
pearance on the stage, after 
a brief period with lien 
Greets company, when I 
enacted such parts as Des- 
demona, Juliet, PegWoffing- 
ton, Paulina, and Beatrice, 
I p laved with Wilson Barrett 
as Berenice in u The Sign of 
the Cross/ 1 at the Lyric 
Theatre. Occasionally I was 
Mercia in the same play, and 
subsequently proceeded to 
America to take the same 
part- For a couple of 
years I played a variety 
of parts in London, re- 
joining Wilson Barrett 





Jttofe b v w. * /j. jtoMiuv. Ebvrv StntL 

in 1900 a& his leading lady, 
Tt was splendid training, for 
Barrett's knowledge was wide, 
and his encouragement wonder- 

Marrelt was really a remark- 
able man, and not only myself 
hut many other young actors 
and actresses owe much to him. 
He was one of those men who 
always brought out the Ijest 
that was in you — sparing in 
unkindly criticism, unsparing in 
encouragement. He had great 
pride in his profession. Indeed, in 
his opinion, there was no other 
profession like goffering as it did 
unlimited p^QNtaf f«ttifame. 








He advised all with 
hist r i on ie as pir a t ions and 
aptitude to continue trying, 
even although successes at 
first wore rare. And here, 
perhaps, I may be allowed to 
reply generally tu the many 
letters I receive from girls 
asking my advice as to what 
opportunities the stage offers 
to their sex to-day. 

In the first place I should 
advise anyone with youth, ta!ent> 
and enthusiasm to go on the stu.ue 
if they wish to do so. 1 think 
the stage is one of the best of 
professions open lo women. .Mind 
you, I mean really qualified 
artistes, not the girl with a pretty 
face and figure and an inordinate 
vanity* who desires to exploit all 
three at the expense of the public. 

if i knew ;i ^irl who was just 



lc;»\ iiiL- school 1 would certainly advise her 
to train for the stage if she felt she had 
anv sort of aptitude for it. just as one 
would advise anvone with a gift for drawing 
to cultivate that gift. But she should 
tra in prober h\ A girl clerk does not expert 
to obtain an engagement without- the 
nercsssirv knowledge of shorthand and 
h i ewriting, neither would a girl walk into 
a Court modiste s and expect to be allowed 
to make a dress because she thought she 
could sew ! They both qualify them- 
selves for their work : and so should the 
stage aspirant. 

let her join a school or classes, and 
work steadily for three years at music and 
rhvthm — T regard a knowledge of this as 
the very first essential 
—elocution and TOM* 
iduct ion j dancing 




and fencing. At the end of that timffi she will 
have acquired sufficient knowledge of these 
branches of her art to be able to put them into 
practical use. 

Let her then travel or get into a good repertoire 
company, such as at Dublin, Birmingham, 
Liverpool . or Manchester. Let her travel every- 
where, and play all the parts she can. In the 
ideal training one should play eight parts a 
week for a little time. At the end of this second 
period of not less than three years again, during 
which she will be earning a salary, she should 
l>e ready for — yes, and obtain — leading parts even 
in London, the Mecca of all players. 

Yes, this was practically my own experience, 

Ftttai '■■•■ H ■*■«■<■..■'■ 

except that my probation was for ten years, 
instead o! the six I give ; but, then, I began 
studying at thirteen. 

Parents who are ignorant on the subject 
of the stage generally think that their 
daughters must get into mischief if they join 
the dramatic profession. This is a totally 
mistaken idea- To start with, if they take 
their profession seriously they will have very 

by (jC 




I'hvto. by fhiity Mirror StadioB. 

little time at their disposal. 
That alone is a far 
greater safeguard than an 
army of chaperons. But 
human nature is the same 
everywhere, and that is a 
fact which very few people 
seem to understand* 

Girls will have the same 
young characteristics whether they are on 
or off the stage ; and if they can't behave 
properly on the stage, they certainly won't 
do so off it, I think that without prejudice 
I can say that most actors and actresses who 
have done good w r ork have the gift of per- 
ennial youth. By that I mean that whatever 
their age may be, their work has cultivated 
in them the power of being always sensitively 

Original from 




revived by seeing her own country- 
men, and when she recognizee Orestes 
she gives way to her pathetic 
yearning for some human love. 
Finally her swift brain seizes the 
situation and evolves the whole 
plan of escape. 
There is a good deal of humour 
in this .situation, the way in which 
Thoas is so completely taken in. I 
love the comedy in it* For 1 wish to 
send people away happy, and not 
depressed by a miserable ending. 
One thing I do com rr end in these plays ? 
and especially to the women in the 
audience, and that is the Gitek 

alive to all the beauty and 
interest that exists inthe world. 

But again, with woman's 
usual per verse ness, I am wander- 
ing from the entries in my diary. 
They seem to me, however, so 
uninteresting — merely a record of the 
plays in which I have appeared, 
Referring again, however, to versatility 
for a moment, I notice that in the year 
1911, when ' Fmny's First Play " was 
produced, I ap[>eared in Sophocles' 
11 CEdipus Rex/' Meredith's " The Senti- 
mentalists;' liarrie's " The Twelve Pound 
Look," Euripides' 4 Iphigenia in Taurus," 
and ZangwilPs " The War God/ 1 This is for 
me a small record in a year, for these roles arc 
distinctly varied. From Euripides to Shaw 
seems rather a far cry, hut a notable entry in my 
diary concerns my appearance in March, 1912, 
Iphigenia at the Kingsway, 

This again is one of my favourite parts, for the 
Teason that it embraces all the emotions. Iphigenia 
is the most perfect woman ever created on the stage. 
Starting with the depression of the exiled woman 
who is cut off from all human ties and natural 
affections of marriage, children, home, and kith and 
kin. she finds herself leading an unnatural and 
repulsive life, which is 
centred round the sacrifices 
to the gods, Then the 
tenderness in her 


.I'MMEk NIl.H1>. pfcltAM/ 
bp fimttjr ffirrvr Stmdiv*. 


1 -i v 

jf Google 




costume. I do wish it was the fashion for people 
to wear Greek dress, I have often noticed how 
free and unhampered Indian women are when 
they walk. It was for the same reason 
that the Greeks had such beautiful move- 
ments, either In walking or dancing 
— they were not upholstered and re- 
stricted as we are by modern clothes. 
My enthusiasm for Greek dress once 
led one of my friends to surest that 1 
should set the fashion myself, but, of 
course, I love modern fashions also. 
I think they are delightful, and there 
was never su"h beauty and variety as 
to-day. Even the hobble skirt, if it is 
not carried to an extreme point, 

\- 1 W'Y NORMA IN 

1 I . ■ Mir {-..,•■ tttdivt 

is so IL'ht and hygienic. h is ;i gn^t im- 
provement on the heavy } full gowns that used 
to be worn. Hut I don't approve of corsets, 
and I think all women would gain con- 
siderably in health and beauty if they gave 
them up. They interfere with one's breathing. 
The reason why actresses and actors keep so 
young is that they are compelled to take long 
breaths when making long speeches. 

As regards dress , however, I am by no means u 

slavish follower of the fashions, whatever they 

may be. I do not deny that I often like and 

follow the fashion of the day, when it has a 

meaning or an idea in it, but I do feel that each 

individual ought to have . ^ much character in her 

clothes as in her handwriting. People often think 

that a well-dressed woman commands more attention 

than a badly-dressed one. but T rather agree with Dr. 

Johnson, who said that " Fine clothes are good 

only as they supply the want of other means of 

procuring respect.' 1 

Clothes, however, should suit occasions, and I am 
afraid the hobble skirt would not suit me when I am 
indulging in a twelve or fifteen-mile walk during the 

week - end, my favourite 
form of recreation. 

I fear I have practically 
no hobbies, except the study 



Photo, bp Iknlv lln rvr bii/titt**. 

by Google 

Original from 

1 7 6 


of human nature and love of travel, and a 
fondness fur motoring. But I only took to 
the latter by chance, through an accident 
which occurred to me. I was down in the 
country for the week - end. On Monday 
it was so fine that I settled to go up by the 
last possible train which would get me to the 
theatre in time for the evening performance. 
The pony had already been once to the 
station, and I suppose settled in her mind 
that a second journey would be a mistake, 

We started in plenty of time, but just 
outside our house there is a hill. Here the 
pony firmly and quietly refused to bud^e. 
We tried persuasion. \Ve tried the whip, 
but you mi^ht just as well try and influence 
the weather as our pony, Louisa. Finally 
I got out of the cart and tried if leading lier 
up the hill would accomplish the deed, Not 
a bit of it ! She lost her temper and finally 
kicked the cart to pieces. 

I then knew that 1 could not catch the 
train, and in the same breath 

1 remembered that 
study would not 
theatre that nigl.t. 
jii)- feelings, 
a broken cart 
in Kent and 

to solve the problem of how F I could get up 
to London in time ! 

Wellj I sent our gardener on a bicycle to 
the nearest town to j^et a motor or taxi or 
something. He found nothing ! The only 
thing to do was to 'phone to London for a 
motor. At last it arrived, but we had to do 
the journey in less than an hour (it usually 
takes an hour and a quarter). What a 
journey it was ! We had at least half-a-dozen 
hairbreadth escapes, but landed at the theatre 
one minute after the curtain rang up, and I was 
on the stage in a minute and a half } but with no 
make-up. After that, no more ponies for me ! 
Lately I have been spending some months 
at the Savoy Theatre renewing my acquain- 
tance with Shakespeare j and I have been very 
amused over letters I have received from 
gallery boys and girls. Their point of view is 
quite delightful j as they entirely look upon 
the characters in the play as people who are 
living real lives. For instance, one letter 
which I got quite recently remonstrated with 
me for running after Demetrius in the way I 
did. And it was after seeing " A Midsummer 
Night's Dream "' that a small friend of mine 
came into my dressing-room and was extremely 
anxious to know whether I had ever seen 
fairies in the woods. When 1 assured her 
that I had, she then informed me that she had 
found out that they were made of bits of 
sunshine that had fallen from the sun on to 
the earth by mistake. We were, therefore, 
quite right to have golden 
fairies* Can you imagine a 
more delightful explanation? 
But I think I have said 
enough about myself, my 
thoughts, and the stage. 
My best moments are spent 
in the theatre, for I do enjoy 

f U tr3C vvof k for li& own sake. 

People have praised my 

few achievements and 

referred to me as clever. 

But I am not that ; I am 

just a woman who w ? ants 

a few things very badly, 

and sometimes 

dreams she has 

attained them. 

fkviv '.p 

A* l.AyiNIA in 

by Google 

XLKS AM ' lu ^»alfrom 


L/MiJV MtilSOF ^tuili-t 




No. V. 




C'H^Ovill and 


Roland Bleke -was a young 
clerk in a provincial seed- 
merenant's office wken Ke 
acquired a large fortune 
by most unexpected means. 
He u now engaged, in the 
following instalment of tkis 
entertaining series, in another 
adventure in his efforts to 
spend it. 

V«L xl«iL-23. 


KE Caout-Chouc was drawing 
all London, Slightly more 
indecent than the Salome 
dance, a shade less reticent 
than Ragtime, it had driven 
I] the Tango out of existence* 
Nobody tangoed now, Nor, 
indeed j did anybody actually caout-chouc, 
for the national dance of Paranoya contained 
three hundred and fifteen recognized steps ; 
but everybody tried to. Caout-Chouc teas 
were all the rage. At the night-clubs fair 
women and brave men reeled about the floor 
under the impression that they were caout- 
chancing. A new revue, " Hullo, Caout- 
Chouc/' had been produced with success. 
And the pioneer of the dance, the peerless 
Maraquita, a native Paranoyan, still per- 
formed it nightly at the music-hall where she 
had first broken loose* 

The Caout-Chouc fascinated Roland Bleke, 
Maraquita fascinated him more. Of all 
the women to whom he had lost his heart at 
first sight, Maraquita had made the firmest 
impression upon him. She was what is 
sometimes called a fine woman. She had 
large, flashing eyes, the physique of a Rugby 
International forward, and the agility of a 
cat on hot bricks* There is a period of about 
fifty steps somewhere in the middle of the 
three hundred and fifteen where the patient, 
abandoning the comparative decorum of the 
earlier movements, whizzes about till she looks 
like a salmon-roloured whirlwind. That was 
the bit that hit Roland* Night after night 
he sat in his stage-box, goggling at Maraquita 
and applauding wildly. 

That she was aware of his existence, that 
he should ever have the unspeakable happi- 
ness of getting to know her, never occurred to 
him. But one night an attendant came up 
to his box. 

" Excuse me, sir, but are you Mr* Roland 
Bleke ? The Senorita Maraquita wishes to 
speak to you." 

He held open the door of the box. The 
possibility of refusal did not appear to occur 
to him* Behind the scenes at that theatre it 
was generally recognized that when the 
Peerless One wanted a thing, she got it- 

They were alone. 

With no protective footlights between 
himself and her, Roland came to the con- 
clusion that he had made a mistake. It was 
not that she was any less beautiful at the 
very close quarters imposed by the limits of 
the dressing-room^ but her personality at this 


i 7 8 


close range had a quality which Roland could 
only define to himself as formidable. 

For perhaps a minute and a half Maraquita 
fixed her compelling eyes on his without 
uttering a word. Then she broke a painful 
silence with this leading question r — 

11 You love me , hem t } ' 

Roland nodded feebly. 

"All men love me/' said the Peerless One, 
blowing cigarette smoke, " But I do not 

This attitude struck Roland as distinctly 

" When men make love to me 3 I send them 
away — so." 

She waved her hand towards the door, and 
Roland began to feel almost cheerful again. 
He was to be dismissed with a caution , after 
all. The woman had a fine, forgiving nature, 

" But not vou." 

" Not me ? " 

" No, not you, You are the man I have 
been waiting for, I read about you in the 
paper, Senor Bleke. I see your picture in the 
paper, too ! I say to myself, ( What a 
man I f " 

" Those picture-paper photographs always 
make one look rather weird," mumbled 

£ * I see you night after night in your box. 
Poof ! I love you," 

" Thanks awfully," bleated Roland* 

" You would do anything for mv sake, 
kfof " 

Roland felt that he would like to know 
just what she meant by " anything," but 
Maraquita was one of those orators who do 
not pause for a reply. 

" Ah ! I knew it ! " she cried. " I knew 
you were that kind of man directly I see you* 
No," she added, as Roland writhed uneasily 
in his chair/ 4 do not embrace me. Later, yes ; 
but now . no* Not till the Great Day*" 

What the Great Day might be Roland could 
not even faintly conjecture. He could only 
hope that it would also be a remote one. 

" And now," said the sefioritaj throwing a 
cloak about her .shoulders, " you come away 
with me to my house. My friends are there 
awaiting us. They will be glad and proud 
to meet you." 

After his first inspection of the house and 
the friends, Roland came to the conclusion 
that he preferred Maraquita's room to her 
company. The former was large and airy. 
The latter, with one exception, small and 
hairy, The exception Maraquita addressed 
as Bombito. He was a conspicuous figure* 

He was, as the railway-station posters say of 
Slopton-on-Sea — different* He was one of 
those out-size, hasty-looking men. One sus- 
pected him of carrying lethal weapons, 

Maraquita presented Roland to the com- 
pany* The native speech of Paranoya 
sounded like shorthand with a blend of 
Spanish. An expert could evidently squeeze 
a good deal of it into a minute. Its effect on 
the company was good. They were mani- 
festly soothed- Even Bombito, 

Introductions in detail then took place. 
This time j for Roland's benefit, Maraquita 
spoke in English, and he learned that most 
those present were marquesses. One or t 1 
outsiders were only counts, but marque: 
predominated. Before him, so he gathe: 
from Maraquita, stood the very flower 
Faranova's aristocracy, driven from thd 
native land by the Infamy of '05. Rolan 1 
was too polite to inquire what on earth $ 
Infamy of '05 might be, but its mention 
a marked effect on the company. 

Paranoya had, it appeared, existed fs 
peacefully for centuries under the rule of 
Alejandro dynasty. Then, in the reign 
Alejandro XIII., disaffection had begun 
spread, culminating in the Infamy of | 
which, Roland had at last discovered, ♦ 
nothing less than the abolition of the monan 
and the installation of a republic. 

These events had been received by' 
world at large with in equanimity bonk 
on contempt, but not by the old twbUss M 
Paranoya. Not for them the Re put; 
yoke. Since 1905 the one thing for 
they had lived, besides the Caout-Chouc 
to see the monarchy restored and 
beloved Alejandro XI I L back on his tl 
Their efforts towards this end had 
untiring, and were at last showing 
bearing fruit. Paranoya, Maraquita 
Roland j was honeycombed with intrigue, 
army was disaffected, the people an? 
a retiirn to the old order of things, 
propitious moment for striking the d^ 
blow was never likely to arrive. The qu 
was purely one of funds* 

At the mention of the word 
Roland , who had become thorough 1 
with the lecture on Paranoyan h" 
up and took notice. He had a* 
feeling that he was about to Y 
for a subscription to the cause 
ful country's freedom. Especi 

He was right. A momer 
had begun to make a spf 
Paranovan, &nd Roknd ■ 
bUMW fcflifer ed that it fi A N 









o to 
: out, 

d her 
— and 

1 said* 

er was 
Cj hairy 

i waiters 
it he did 



to himself. As, at the end of it, the entire 
company rose to their feet and extended their 
glasses towards him with a mighty shout, he 
assumed that Maraquita had been proposing 
his health. 

" They say ' To the Liberator of Paranoya/" 
kindly translated the Peerless One. " Ah ! " 
Her fine eyes blazed, as a lugubrious chant 
succeeded the cheering. " Now they sing our 
beloved anthem, the Royal anthem of 
Paranoya ; it has not been heard on Para- 
noyan soil since the Infamy of '05. " 

To Roland it seemed an ample justification 
for the Infamy of '05. 

" You must excuse/' said Maraquita, 
tolerantly, as a bevy of patriots surrounded 
Roland and kissed him on the cheek. " They 
are so grateful to the saviour of our country. 

I myself would kiss you, were it not that I 
have sworn that no man's lips shall touch 
mine till the Royal Standard floats once more 
above the palace of Paranoya. But that will 
be soon. With you on our side we cannot 

What did the woman mean ? Roland asked 
himself wildly. Did she labour under the 
distressing delusion that he proposed to shed 
his blood on behalf of a deposed monarch to 
whom he had never been introduced ? 

Maraquita's next remarks made the matter 

" I have told them," she said, " that you 
love me, that you are willing to risk every- 
thing for my sake. I have promised them 
that you, the rich Senor Bleke, will supply 
the funds for the revolution. Once more, 
comrades : ' To the Saviour of Paranoya ! ' " 

Roland tried his hardest to catch the infec- 
tion of this patriotic enthusiasm, but somehow 
he could not do it. Base, sordid, mercenary 
speculations would intrude themselves. About 
how much was a good, well-furnished revolu- 
tion likely to cost ? As delicately as he could, # 
he put the question to Maraquita. 

She said, " Poof ! The cost ? La, la ! " 

Which was all very well, but hardly satis- 
factory as a business chat. 

" We will talk of that later," she went on. 

II Now we will enjoy ourselves, isn't it ? " 
And that was all Roland could get out of 


The next few days passed for Roland in a 
sort of dream. It was the kind of dream 
which it is not easy to distinguish from a 
nightmare. It amazed him that he had ever 
wanted to know Maraquita. It is not easy to 
achieve happiness in this world, but Roland 
felt that a very fair basis for it could be had 

simply by not knowing Maraquita. How 
people who did not know Maraquita could go 
about the world grumbling was more than he 
could understand. They did not know their 

Her reticence at the supper-party on the 
subject of details connected with the financial 
side of revolutions entirely disappeared. She 
now talked nothing but figures, and from the 
confused mass which she presented to him 
Roland was able to gather that, in financing 
the restoration of Royalty in Paranoya, he 
would indeed be risking everything for her 

In the matter of revolutions Maraquita was 
no niggard. Sh? knew how the thing should 
be done — well, or not at all. There would 
be so much for rifles, machine-guns, and what- 
not ; and there would be so much for the 
expense of smuggling them into the country. 
Then there would be so much to be laid out 
in corrupting the Republican army. Roland 
brightened a little when they came to this 
item. As the standing army of Paranoya 
amounted to twenty thousand men, and as it 
seemed possible to corrupt it thoroughly at 
a cost of about thirty shillings a head, the 
obvious course, to Roland's way of thinking, 
was to concentrate on this side of the question, 
and thus avoid unnecessary bloodshed. 

It appeared, however, that Maraquita did 
not want to avoid bloodshed — that she rather 
liked bloodshed, that the leaders of the 
revolution would be disappointed if there 
were no bloodshed. Especially Bombito. 
Unless, she pointed out, there was a certain 
amount of carnage, looting, and so on, the 
revolution would not achieve a popular 
success. True, the beloved Alejandro might 
be restored, but he would sit upon a throne 
that was insecure unless the coronation 
festivities took a bloodthirsty turn. By all 
means, said Maraquita, corrupt the army, but 
not at the risk of making the affair tame and 
unpopular. Paranoya was an emotional 
country, and liked its revolutions with a bit 
of zip to them. 

It was about ten days after he had definitely 
cast in his lot with th? revolutionary party 
that Roland was made aware that these 
things were a little more complex than he had 
imagined. He had reconciled himself to the 
financial outlay. It had been difficult, but 
he had done it. That his person as well as 
his purse would be placed in peril he had not 

The fact was borne in upon him at the end 
of the second week by the arrival of the 




It blew in from the street just as he was 
enjoying his after-dinner cigar. 

It consisted of three men, one long and 
suave, the other two short, stout, and silent. 
They all had the sallow complexion and undue 
hairiness which he had come by this time to 
associate with the native of Paranoya. 

For a moment he mistook them for a drove 
of exiled noblemen whom he had not had the 
pleasure of meeting at the supper-party ; and 
he waited resignedly for them to make night 
hideous with the Royal anthem. He poised 
himself on his toes, the more readily to spring 
aside if they should try to kiss him on the 

" Mr. Bleke ? " said the long man. 

His companions drifted towards the cigar- 
box which stood open on the table, and looked 
at it wistfully. 

*' Long live the monarchy/' said Roland, 
wearily. He had gathered in the course of 
his dealings with the exiled ones that this 
remark generally went well. 

On the present occasion it elicited no out- 
burst of cheering. On the contrary, the long 
man frowned, and his two companions helped 
themselves to a handful of cigars apiece with 
a marked moodiness. 

" Death to the monarchy," corrected the 
long man, coldly. " And," he added, with a 
wealth of meaning in his voice, " to all who 
meddle in the affairs of our beloved country 
and seek to do it harm." 

" I don't know what you mean," said Roland. 

" Yes, Senor Bleke, you do know what I 
mean. I mean that you will be well advised 
to abandon the schemes which you are 
hatching with the malcontents who would do 
my beloved land an injury." 

The conversation was growing awkward. 
Roland had got so into the habit of taking it 
for granted that every Paranoyan he met must 
of necessity be a devotee of the beloved 
Alejandro that it came as a shock to him to 
realize that there were those who objected to 
his restoration to the throne. Till now he 
had looked on the enemy as something in the 
abstract. It had not struck him that the 
people for whose correction he was buying all 
these rifles and machine-guns were individuals 
with a lively distaste for having their blood 

" Senor Bleke," resumed the speaker, 
frowning at one of his companions whose 
hand was hovering above the bottle of liqueur 
brandy, " you are a man of sense. You icnow 
what is safe and what is not safe. Believe 
me, this scheme of yours is not safe. You 
have been led away, but there is still time to 

withdraw. Do so, and all is well. Do not 
so, and your blood be upon your own head." 

" My blood ! " gasped Roland. 

The speaker bowed. 

" That is all," he said. " We merely came 
to give the warning. Ah, Senor Bleke, do not 
be rash. You think that here, in this great 
London of yours, you are safe. You look at 
the policeman upon the corner of the road, and 
you say to yourself, * I am safe.' Believe me, 
not at all so is it, but much the opposite. We # 
have ways by which it is of no account the 
policeman on the corner of the road. That is 
all, Senor Bleke. We wish you a good night." 

The deputation withdrew. 

Maraquita, informed of the incident, 
snapped her fingers and said " Poof ! " It 
sometimes struck Roland that she would be 
more real help in a difficult situation if she 
could get out of the habit of saying " Poof ! " 

" It is nothing," she said. 

" No ? " said Roland. 

" We easily out-trick them, isn't it ? You 
make a will leaving your money to the Cause, 
and then where are they, hein ? " 

It was one way of looking at it, but it 
brought little balm to Roland. He said so. 
Maraquita scanned his face keenly. 

" You are not weakening, Roland ? " she 
said. " You would not betray us now ? " 

" Well, of course, I don't know about 

betraying, yQU know, but still What I 

mean is " 

Maraquita's eyes seemed to shoot forth two 

" Take care ! " she cried. " With me it is 
nothing, for I know that your heart is with 
Paranoya. But if the others once had cause 
to suspect that your resolve was failing — ah ! 
If Bombito " 

Roland took her point. He had forgotten 
Bombito for the moment. 

" For goodness' sake," he said, hastily, 
" don't go saying anything to Bombito to 
give him the idea that J'm trying to back out. 
Of course you can rely on me, and all that. 
That's all right." 

Maraquita's gaze softened. She raised her 
glass — they were lunching at the time — and 
put it to her lips. 

" To the Saviour of Paranoya ! " she said. 

" Beware ! " whispered a voice in Roland's 

He turned with a start. A waiter was 
standing behind him, a small, dark, hairy 
man. He was looking into the middle 
distance with the abstracted air which waiters 
cultivate. Roland stared at him, but he did 





by Google 

Original from 



That evening, returning to his flat, Roland 
was paralyzed by the sight of the word 
41 Beware ! " scrawled across the mirror in 
his bedroom. It had apparently been done 
with a diamond. He rang the bell. 

" Sir ? " said the competent valet. (" Com- 
petent valets are in attendance at each of 
these flats."— Advt.) 

" Has anyone been in here since I left ? " 

" Yes, sir. A foreign-looking gentleman 
called. He said he knew you, sir. I showed 
him in, as he said he would wait." 

The same night, well on in the small hours, 
the telephone-bell rang. Roland dragged 
himself out of bed. 

" Halloa ? " 

" Is that Senor Bleke ? " 

" Yes. What is it ? " 

" Beware ! " 

Things were becoming intolerable. Roland 
had a certain amount of nerve, but not enough 
to enable him to bear up against this sinister 
persecution. Yet what could he do ? Sup- 
pose he did beware, to the extent of with- 
drawing his support from the Royalist move- 
ment, what then ? Bombito ! If ever there 
was a toad under the harrow, he was that 
toad. And all because a perfectly respectful 
admiration for the Caout-Chouc had led him 
to occupy a stage-box several nights in succes- 
sion at the theatre where the peerless Mara- 
quita tied herself into knots at a salary of two 
hundred pounds a week. It was hard. 

A few days later somebody shot a bullet 
through the window of his sitting-room. He 
was out at the time, but the incident had the 
effect of putting the final touch to his gloom. 

There was an air of unusual excitement in 
Maraquita's manner at their next meeting. 

" We have been in communication with 
Him," she whispered. u He will receive you. 
He will give an audience to the Saviour of 

" Eh ? Who will ? " 

" Our beloved Alejandro. He wishes to 
see his faithful servant. We are to go to 
him at once." 

" Where ? " 

* ' At his own house. He will receive you in 

Such was the quality of the emotions 
through which he had been passing of late 
that Roland felt but a faint interest at the 
prospect of meeting face to face a genuine — 
if exiled — monarch. 

The cab drew up at a gloomy-looking house 
in a fashionable square. Roland rang the 
door-bell. There seemed a certain element of 

the prosaic in the action. He wondered what 
he should say to the butler. " Is the King at 
home ? " was banal. 

There was, however, no need for words. 
The door opened, and they were ushered in 
without parley. A butler and two footmen 
showed them into a luxuriously-furnished 
ante-room. Roland entered with two thoughts 
running in his mind. The first was that the 
beloved Alejandro had got an uncommonly 
snug crib ; the second that this was exactly 
like going to see the dentist. 

Presently the squad of retainers returned, 
the butler leading. 

" His Majesty will receive Mr. Bleke." 

Roland followed him with tottering knees. 

His Majesty King Alejandro XIII. on the 
retired list was a genial-looking man of middle 
age, comfortably stout about the middle and 
a little bald as to the forehead. He might 
have been a prosperous stockbroker. 
Roland felt more at his ease at the very 
sight of him. 

" Sit down, Mr. Bleke," said His Majesty, 
as the door closed. " I have been wanting to 
see you for some time." 

Roland had nothing to say. He was 
regaining his composure, but he had a long 
way to go yet before he could feel thoroughly 
at home. 

King Alejandro produced a cigarette-case 
and offered it to Roland, who shook his head 
speechlessly. The King lit a cigarette, and 
smoked thoughtfully for a while. 

" You know, Mr. Bleke," he said at last, 
" this must stop. It really must. I mean, 
your devoted efforts on my behalf." 

Roland gaped at him. 

" You are a very young man. I had 
expected to see someone much older. Your 
youth gives me the impression that you have 
gone into this affair from a spirit of adventure. 
I can assure you that you have nothing to 
gain commercially by interfering with my late 
kingdom. I hope, before we part, that I can 
persuade you to abandon your idea of 
financing this movement to restore me to the 

" I don't understand — er — your Majesty." 

" I will explain. Please treat what I shall 
say as strictly confidential. You must know, 
Mr. Bleke, that these attempts to re-establish 
me as a reigning monarch in Paranoya are, 
frankly, the curse of an otherwise very 
pleasant existence. You look surprised ! 
My dear sir, do you know Paranoya ? Have 
you ever been there ? Have you the remotest 
idea what sort of life a King of Paranoya 

leads ? ulMift^ffiM.^ M8ure you 



that a coal-heaver is happy by comparison. 
In the first place, the climate of the country 
is abominable. I always had a cold in the 
head. Secondly, there is a small but ener- 
getic section of the populace whose sole 
recreation it seems to be to use their monarch 
as a target for bombs. They are not very 
good bombs, it is true — the science of chem- 
istry is in its infancy in Paranoya — but one 
in, say, ten explodes, and even an occasional 
bomb is unpleasant if you are the target. 
Finally, I am much too fond of your delightful 
country to wish to leave it. I was educated 
in England — I am a Magdalen man — and I 
have the greatest horror of ever being com- 
pelled to leave it. My present life suits me 
exactly. There is no pomp, no ridiculous 
ceremony, nothing but quiet enjoyment. Can 
you wonder that I do not rejoice when well- 
meaning but officious persons try to drive me 
from London to a very depressing and 
unhealthy existence in my native country ? 
That is all I wished to say, Mr. Bleke. For 
both our sakes, for the sake of my comfort and 
your purse, abandon this scheme of yours. " 

Roland walked home thoughtfully. Mara- 
quita had left the Royal residence long before 
he had finished the whisky-and-soda which 
the genial monarch had pressed upon him. 
As he walked, the futility of his situation 
came home to him more and more. What- 
ever he did, he was bound to displease some- 
body ; and these Paranoyans were so con- 
foundedly impulsive when they were vexed. 

For two days he avoided Maraquita. On 
the third, with something of the instinct 
which draws the murderer to the spot where 
he has buried the body, he called at her house. 

She was not present, but otherwise there 
was a full gathering. There were the mar- 
quesses, the counts, and also Bombito. 

He looked unhappily round the crowd. 

Somebody gave him a glass of champagne. 
He raised it. 

" To the revolution," he said, mechanically. 

There was a silence — it seemed to Roland 
an awkward silence. As if he had said some- 
thing improper, the marquesses and counts 
began to drift from the room, till only 
Bombito was left. Roland regarded him 
with some apprehension. He was looking 
larger and more unusual than ever. 

But to-night, apparently, Bombito was in 
genial mood. He came forward and slapped 
Roland on the shoulder. And then the 
remarkable fact came to light that Bombito 
spoke English, or a sort of English. 

" My old chap/' he said. " I would have a 
speech with you." 

He slapped Roland again on the shoulder. ; 

r " The others they say, * Break it with Senor 
Bleke gently.' . Maraquita say, ' Break it with 
Senor Bleke gently.' So I break it with you 

He dealt Roland a third stupendous punch. 
Whatever was to be broken gently, it was 
plain to Roland that it was not himself. And 
suddenly there came to him a sort of intuition 
that told him that Bombito was nervous. 

" After all you have done for us, Senor 
Bleke, we shall seem to you ver' ungrateful ; 
bounders, but what is it ? Yes ? No ? I 
shouldn't wonder, perhaps. The whole fact 
is that there has been political crisis in 
Paranoya. Upset. Apple-cart. Yes ? You ; 
follow ? No ? The Ministry have been — 
what do you say ? — put through it. Expelled. 
Broken up. No more Ministry. New Ministry 
wanted. To conciliate ~ Royalist party, that 
is the cry. So deputation of leading persons, 
good chaps, prominent merchants and that 
sort of bounder, call upon us. They offer 
me to be President. See ? No ? Yes ? 
That's right. I am ambitious blighter, 
Senor Bleke. What about it, no ? I accept. 
I am new President of Paranoya. So no need 
for your kind assistance. Royalist revolution 
up the spout. No more Royalist revolution." 

The wave of relief which swept over Roland 
ebbed sufficiently after an interval to enable 
him to think of someone but himself. He was 
not fond of Maraquita, but he had a tender 
heart, and this, he felt, would kill the poor girl. 

" But Maraquita ? " 

" That's all right, splendid old chap. No 
need to worry about Maraquita, stout old 
boy. Where the husband goes, so does the 
wife go. As you say, whither thou goes will 
I follow, no ? " 

" But I don't understand. Maraquita is 
not your wife ? " 

" Why, certainly, old heart. What else ? " 

" Have you been married to her all the 
time ? " 

" Why, certainly, good dear boy." 

The room swam before Roland's eyes. 
There was no place in his mind for meditations 
on the perfidy of woman. He groped forward 
and found Bombito's hand. 

" By Jove," he said, thickly, as he wrung 
it again and again, " I knew you were a good 
sort the first time I saw you. Have a drink 
or something. Have a cigar or something. 
Have something, anyway, and sit down and 
tell me all atoutlifabnn 

[Next month: "The Episode of the Hired PasL"} 

The Old Beefsteak Room 
and TnereaDOuts. 


Illustrated by Ralpli Cleaver 


JoKn Hare^Bcerbohm Tree — Colonel Saunderson^Toolc — Sarah Bernhardt 
— John Hollingshead — Penley— Thoniae Hardy — Clark Huseell — 

The Bancrofts. 

! SUPPER given at the Garrick 
Club by Johnny Hare, to which 
he bade some score of personal 
friends, was made memorable 
by a comedy unrehearsed, 
played off the stage without 
accessories, and witnessed by 

a company of distinguished actors. Gathering 

in the hall of the Garrick about the time 

named for supper, the 

company chatted and 

the host led the way to 

the supper-room. 
The guests being 

seated, it was discovered 

that a chair was filled by 

one whom nobody knew. 

In such intimate society 

the appearance of a 

strangerwas noteworthy. 

He must be some body , or 

Johnny Hare would not 

have invited him, 

Whispered inquiry going 

round the table failed to 

discover his identity. 

The most puzzled man 

of all was the host, who 

had never in his life set 

eyes on the stranger 3 

who made himself 

thoroughly at home, 

enjoying the wines, the meats, and not least 

the conversation- 
Towards the close of the feast wags seated 

near the Unknown suggested that it would 

be a nice thing if he, on behalf of the company, 

would propose a toast to the health of the 

host* Nothing loath, he rose, and in prosy 

fashion extolled the great actor. During the 
speech, loudly cheered by wicked guests, 
Hare's face was a sight to see. There is 

VoL jcLvtiL— 34* 


nothing he detests more than speech-making. 
To have the necessity of making a speech 
forced upon him by an intruder at his supper- 
table was a little too much. However, 
entering into the spirit of the joke, he made 
due acknowledgment, and the company 
soon after breaking up, the still Unknown 
went home, pluming himself on having 
spent a pleasant evening* 

I happened to be 
seated next to Beerbohm 
Tree (not yet knighted) ? 
who told a delightful 
snake story, Mrs, Tree 
was the pleased possessor 
of a live snake, of which 
she was very fond. 
It used to attach itself 
to her in various more 
or less becoming con- 
volutions, One day 
the snake disappeared, 
leaving behind a void in 
the household where it 
had long found its home. 
Diligent persistent 
search failed to bring to 
light trace of the 
wanderer. Months after- 
wards the Trees were 
dining in Stratton Street 
with the Baroness 
Colonel Saunderson, the 
fighting Irish member of the House of 
Commons, was there. The subject of snakes 
accidentally broached, he told of a fearsome 

Seated one summer morning in his study, 
the window opening out on to his little 
garden in Sloane Street, a few doors lower 
down than the Treejj 1 , he heard a slight 
thud on^^y^pl^jle^ he beheld 


^>W - 


Burdett -Coutts. 


the Strand magazine. 


a snake making straight for him* The 
Colonel's quick mind seized the situation, This 
was a new form of outrage committed at the 
instance of his countrymen of Separatist ten- 
dencies, directed against a pillar of the Union. 
The uses of dynamite having palled upon them, 
and the pleasure of houghing horses and 
wrenching off the tails of the landlord's oxen 
cloying, they had come to flinging venomous 
snakes within the domestic circles of un- 
suspecting Loyalists. 

Saunderson, though not exactly a man of 
few words, was one of prompt action, as was 
shown on that famous night in June, 1893, 
when, the House of Commons breaking out 
into ungo% r ernable riot, an anonymous Irish 
member fell over the railing at the back of 
his seat and, alighting on the Colonel's knees, 
was lustily pommelled. 

He killed the snake, and preserved its body 
in a bottle of Irish whisky. 

" That's our snake I " cried Beerbohm 
Tree , in hoarse voice. 

And so it was. Getting into the garden, it 
climbed over a wall, across the next garden, 
scaled a second wall, and so made its way into 

Colonel Saunderson p s study, there to meet its 

The accident which brought Mr. and Mrs. 
Beerbohm Tree within the circle where 
Colonel Saunderson told his story and re- 
vealed the secret of the disappearance of the 
snake added the last touch of dramatic 
interest to what in itself is a pretty story. 

On an early day in August, 1906, the re- 
sponse, long delayed, came to Johnny Toole's 
cry uttered two years earlier in the ear of his 
old friend Irving, 

fI Why don't they let me die ? I wish they 
would let me die ! n 

Meanwhile he had existed rather than lived. 
His most loving friends were the last to 
regret that the end was reached. It was a 
curious coincidence that two men so utterly 
opposed in temperament and form of genius 
as Irving and Toole should have held in com- 
mon the proud distinction of being the most 
popular men of their long day. Their respec- 
tive careers, rising to highest pitch of 
success j created no personal resentment in a 
generous profession. Neither had an enemy 
in the world. The death of each was marked 
by a state of general mourning genuine in 
degree that does not always pertain to the 

Toole was incurably fond of a practical 
joke. Lunching one day in the City with a 
friend j he noticed a number of people going 
up one of the stairways of the Cannon Street 

Original from 





;■ • ■ 

.... . 

discrimination. I 
forget what the 
il lovely pictures " 



Hotel. Following the stream, he found him- 
self in a room devoted to the service of public 
meetings. On the sideboard was a musty 
candelabra. Toole examined it with absorbing 
interest. Beckoning to a respectable, elderly 
gentleman, a shareholder attending the 
meeting, he, leaning confidentially towards 
him, said, in a hoarse whisper : — 

" Now, if you can buy that in for three 
pounds ten, pick it up for me* Usual com- 
mission, of course." 

Nodding in a friendly way he withdrew. 
There dawned on the amazed shareholders 
mind the suspicion that either the man was 
mad or had mistaken the place for an auction- 

From a bundle of letters in schoolboy hand- 
writing I quote one written whilst Toole was 
still at work ; — 

Toole's Theatre, 

King William Street, Strand, 

June 5th, 1893, 

My dear Lucy,— Thanks for your invite* I shall be 
pleased to lunch with you on the 13th at 1.30. 

The reason I am left out of the Birthday Honour 
List is that it would be the ruin of a Low Comedian 
to be Knighted. The audience would never laugh 
again at Str J. L* T. — Yours sincerely, J. L, Toole, 

Enclosed lovely pictures were intended for the Royal 

A knighthood had just been conferred upon 
Henry Irving, Hence Toole's whimsical 


I met Sarah Bern- 
hardt at an At Home 
given by Mrs, Labou- 
chere in the corner 
house of the Old 
Palace Yard. Labby 
left the House of 
Commons early to 
assist his wife in 
doing the honours of 
the place, and was in 
much request by the 
crowd of fair women, 
finely dressed , who 
filled the room. As 
for Sarah j she was in 
the highest spirits, 
"in her wild -flower 
mood/' as someone 
said. No one, to look 
at her as she stood 
laughing and chat- 
ting with all comers^ 
would imagine she was a grandmother. 
She had altered considerably since first 
coming to London, having quite grown 
out of that extreme slightness of form at 
one time the source of perpetual jesting 
among ribald French newspapers. I remember 
when I dwelt in the Qu artier Latin reading in 
the Figaro a grave description of Sarah's con- 
troversy with her medical attendant. He had 
prescribed a pilh She preferred a powder, 
explaining that if she took a pill its rotundity 
would, temporarily at least, spoil her figure. 
She was dressed like a girl of sixteen, in 
a gown of soft white China silk with a deep 
edge of Valenciennes lace. Her hat was 
large and rather flat in shape , fashioned of 
pleated pale-green tulle, crowned by a great 
pale pink rose — emblematic, I suppose^ of 
the sweetness and serenity of her later life. 
She recited two pieces, or," rather, read one 
and recited the other. The first was a story 
of two lovers wandering through a wood 
taking their last farewell. Over their ima- 
ginary grief Sarah mourned in the richest, 
softest, most musical voice ever heard from 
woman. Whether it was nature or art I am 
not sure; certainly when she had finished 
the story the tears were running down her 
unpainted cheeks. 

It is an old controversy whether famous 
*ctors and actiress^ii really fed the emotion 



they simulate in their presentation of varied 
character. Upon this point Miss Ellen 
Terry is an interesting and important witness. 
Talking about the revival of " Charles L," she 
told me she never was able to play the 
part of the Queen with dry eyes. On the 
first night of the revival of the piece many 
in the audience were, through one of the 
scenes, literally sobbing. 

" But," said Ellen Terry, " no one in the 
theatre cried more heartily than I did." 

Lady Bancroft's experience in this matter 
is related on another page. 

Few men had a more interesting or varied 
life than John Hollingshead, cheerfully, 
strenuously, toiled through. He began his 
career in connection with literature and 
journalism. He was one of the few survivors 
— after the death of his old friend, Edmund 
Yates, the only survivor— of the staff of 
young men whom Charles Dickens attached 
to him when he founded Household Words. 
When Thackeray undertook charge of the 
Cornhill Magazine he recognized Plain John's 
literary gifts, expounded in the forcible 
English that earned for him his sobriquet. 
Hollingshead served under him as he had 
worked for Charles Dickens. He was on the 
staff of the Daily News before the time of 
the oldest hands (save Sir John Robinson) 
attached to that journal at the time of its 
transmogrification. He discovered, if not 
his true vocation, one more lucrative than 
journalism when, throwing down the pen of 
the dramatic critic, he founded the Gaiety 

As manager of that little house he did 
much to revolutionize London theatricals. 
As he put it, in phrase that grew familiar, 
" The sacred lamp of burlesque was always 
kept burning at the Gaiety." Summer or 
winter, the theatre was ever open and always 
crowded. Amongst the novelties he intro- 
duced were matinies, the abolition of fees, 
and the introduction of the electric light. I 
well remember passing down the Strand, 
homeward-bound after a Punch dinner, seeing 
a crowd gaping at a great globe of light 
pendent from the main entrance of the Gaiety, 
under which the gaslights shamefacedly 

With the electric light flaming all over 
London John Hollingshead, in his seventy- 
second year, took his benefit. It was his 
pride that it should be his " first and only 
benefit," albeit he had been connected with 
the stage for more than thirty years. That 
he should need pecuniary assistance was a 

circumstance illustrative of the vicissitudes 
of the dramatic profession. He made no 
secret of the pleasing fact that at one time, 
whilst he was yet manager of the Gaiety 
Theatre, he had a private capital of over 
one hundred thousand pounds. 

One of his most daring and successful 
enterprises was the engagement of the entire 
company of the Comidie Franfaise to play 
at the Gaiety Theatre. He told me he entered 
into a contract with M. Got to pay in advance 
one thousand six hundred pounds a week, the 
company taking no risks. The engagement 
was for six weeks, and the French visitors 
received a total of nine thousand six hundred 

The expenses were brought up to three 
hundred and forty pounds a night. It 
seemed impossible to fill the theatre and 
keep it filled through six weeks in sufficient 
force to cover that sum and leave a moderate 
margin. The speculation turned out a 
brilliant and profitable success, the takings 
during the six weeks exceeding twenty 
thousand pounds. 

That and the rest vanished like snow on 
the river. Shortly before the end came, with 
the generosity characteristic of the profession 
his old friends rallied round him and gave 
him a rousing benefit. This form of friend- 
ship was the more appropriate since Hollings- 
head was always to the fore, giving time and 
money, in cases of the need of crippled 
brothers and sisters on the stage. 

The novelist of the twentieth century has 
discovered a source of revenue unknown to 
earlier masters. In his lifetime the author of 
" The Bride of Lammermoor " never drew 
tribute from adaptation of a story that 
brought thousands of pounds to the coffers of 
Henry Irving. Several of Charles Dickens's 
novels have been dramatized in the last 
forty years. Eager business man as he was, 
he never struck oil in that direction. Charles 
Reade, a contemporary novelist who was also 
gifted with business capacity, was one of the 
first of his class who supplemented income from 
his publishers by toll taken at the theatres. 

To-day a successful novelist looks, fre- 
quently with splendid realization, to profits 
to be made on the stage after his (or her) 
story has run through the circulating libraries. 
Anstey Guthrie told me that the proceeds of 
the serial and book publication of " The Man 
from Blankney's," handsome as they were, 
were trifles compared with the aggregate of 
the royalties yielded by the comedy. The 
pre^eTitatfoD in dramatic form of " The 



Bondman " brought its author pecuniary 
benefit far exceeding the proceeds of the 
copyright of his novel. 

The almost fabulous amount of profit 
on a successful play was revealed 
in connection with the production of 
"Charley's Aunt." When Penley proposed 
to run the piece all he wanted was money to 
meet expenses. By chance he met a lady 
who knew a man with money at his command 
and disposition to venture it on theatrical 
enterprise. Penley, having nothing, and 
therefore ready to promise anything, under- 
took to pay the lady five per cent, on his 
profits if she would obtain for him a loan of 
eight hundred pounds. She, going to work 
with that appearance of artlessness which is 
among the charms of woman, induced her 
friend to plank down the money. Incident- 
ally she secured from the lender a promise 
also to pay a percentage on profits that 
might come to him from the transaction. 
Under these arrangements she seemed pretty 
well off. So she was. But her share of the 
earnings of " Charley's Aunt " was a mere 
trifle compared with the revenue that flowed 
into the coffers of lender and borrower. 
From the two principals the lady who had 
been at the trouble of personally introducing 
them drew commissions amounting to one 
thousand seven hundred pounds. The in- 
vestor of eight hundred pounds received divi- 
dends amounting to thirty thousand pounds, 
whilst Penley pocketed sixty thousand pounds. 

Meeting Thomas Hardy in London in the 
summer of 1895, he confided to me that he 
bad left his beloved Wessex for a time in 
fulfilment of a novel engagement. Mrs. 
Patrick Campbell, sighing for some new woman 
with a past, had conceived a great desire to 
play the part of the heroine in a dramatized 
version of " Tess of the D'Urbervilles." 

Mr. Hardy, sharing an impression which, 
at the outset at least, would probably be 
general, was doubtful of the possibilities of the 
adaptation. Mrs. Campbell was insistent, 
and the novelist, the mildest-mannered man 
that ever wrote so bold a story, consented. 
At the time of our meeting he was engaged 
upon dramatizing the novel, and found it an 
advantage to work in London, where he was 
within touch of the acutest critics of dramatic 
work and the most experienced stage- 
u^nagers. If any point arose on which 
counsel or advice would be useful, he knew 
where straightway to get it. 

There is little doubt that, with skilful 
treatment, and with Mrs. Patrick Campbell 

adequately supported, the play would have 
drawn immensely. Whether the play was 
ever finished, and, if so, why the curtain 
never drew up on it, I do not know. Mr. Hardy 
is not a 'prentice hand at stage work. 
Sixteen years earlier he dramatized what 
remains one of the best of his novels, " Far 
from the Madding Crowd/' which had a 
successful run at the Globe Theatre. 

Another proposed play that never reached 
the stage was suggested by William Terriss to 
the novelist, Clark Russell. I happened to be 
on a visit to the latter at his residence in Bath 
when Terriss ran down, it being Sunday, to 
confer with him on the project of a nautical 
drama. After the interview Russell told 
me that if he wrote it he would carefully 
avoid the old-fashioned transpontine style of 
" Black-Eyed Susan." He thought something 
useful and attractive was to be done in the 
way of reproducing in dramatized form 
scenes from the actual life of the merchant 
seamen of to-day. Shortly after Terriss, a 
.fascinating personality, was murdered' at the 
stage door, and what would have been an 
interesting experiment died with him. 

Sir Squire and Lady Bancroft, who had 
the courageous sense to retire from the stage 
when at the height of their renown and pros- 
perity, are neighbours of ours in Kent. 
Under date Sunday, December 12th, 1909, I 
find in my diary the following note of one of 
many visits paid them : — 

" To Folkestone to lunch with the Bancrofts. 
Tram to Sandgate (in fine weather a beautiful 
drive), skirting a rainy, desolate sea. Found 
the Bancrofts charmingly housed. They have 
had the good fortune to pick up an admirably 
built house with frontage to road, at the back 
tree-shaded terraces leading down to sea. It 
is furnished with perfect taste in respect of 
decoration and comfort. Lady B. did not 
appear at luncheon, being confined to her 
bed with a cold. We were six, including Mrs. 
Forbes-Robertson, whose husband is in the 
States coining money with Jerome's ' Passing 
of the Third Floor Back.' Meanwhile she 
lives in Folkestone, happy with her children. 

" When I say we were six, that was the 
number seated at the table. As conversa- 
tion proceeded we discovered that, as in the 
family circumstances of the little maid Words- 
worth knew, we were seven. From the next 
room came an inquiring whistle, followed by 
the adjuration , ' Halloa, Bogey ! ' Bogey being 
the endearing abbreviation of the name of the 
head of the household. It was the parrot, on 

i go 


no account to be left oat of current conver- 
sation. It contributed to it constantly, if 
with some irrelevance. After muth coaxing 
Bancroft induced it to say f God save the 
King ! * Having thus observed the convenante 
of the occasion ; it added, sot to v&ce, the 
deplorable commentary, ' Rats ! ' 

" Talking about plays and the remuneration 
of authors, Bancroft said that during the full 
run of their management at the Prince of 
Wales's, and afterwards at the Haymarket, 
he and his wife paid the author a fixed fee of 
five pounds a night. In the full tide of for- 
tune, the start of which they felt was due to 
Robertson, they proposed a more liberal 
scale of payment* 
Not to be outdone 
in chivalry , Robertson 
declined to depart 
from the time- 
honoured system of 
the nightly fiver.* 
Bancroft added that 
it was Boucicault who 
introduced the system 
of percentage that to- 
day makes the suc- 
cessful dramatist rich 
beyond the dreams of 

M The piece de risis* 
lance at luncheon was 
called [ mixed grill.' 
As the name suggests, 
it was a composite 
dish. Someone said it 
reminded him of the contents of the witches' 
cauldron in * Macbeth/ 

" f Yes/ said Bancroft, rummaging among 
the kidneys, sausages, and cutlets for a tooth- 
some bit j f but the mixture is not quite the 
same. Here be no 

Toad, that under cold stone 
Days and nights hast thirty- one 
Swelter'd venom sleeping got. 
Fillet of a fenny snake, 
Eye of newt and toe of frog, 
Wool of bat and tongue of dog, 
Adder's fork and blind -worm's sting, 
Lizard's ieg and howlet's wing. 1 

"We were al! glad of that* 

"As I inspected this dish, of 

Bancroft, having compounded it, was 
pardonably proud, I thought of the oppor- 
tunity lost to Arthur Cecil owing to too early 
death, I frequently met him coming on 
from the theatre to the supper-rooms at 
evening parties. He had a way which hugely 
delighted his friends, of going about closely 
examining the various dishes displayed on 
the buffet, humming an uncertain tune as he 
went. If there was nothing to his taste the 
performance was prolonged. If the variety 
was rich it was abbreviated. Just as a bee 
buzzes round a flower preparatory to settling 
upon its sweetness, so Cecil hummed his 
way along the buffet. When the tune 

suddenly stopped we 
knew he had found 
something to eat, 

" This mixed grill 
would have made 
short work of his 

" After luncheon 
my wife and I paid 
an afternoon call on 
Lady B. We found 
her in a dainty bed- 
room with spacious 
bay - window looking 
on to the sea. In 
spite of her cold she 
was in high spirits. 
Mention made of 
Forbes- Robertson 



i* n 


in * The Third Floor 
Back/ she told how 
she had been there on the first night of its 
presentation, and went on to describe the 
story. Presently, warming to the subject, 
she really acted the leading part. I asked 
her how often she had seen the piece. 

" * Only once/ she said. * It was on the 
first night, w r hen I cried — oh, how I cried ! 
At one of the intervals Bogey went round to 
see Forbie in his dressing-room, I was rather 
glad, as I could weep better by myself* It 
turned out I wasn't alone. Looking up at 
the dress - circle^ I saw a middle-aged man 
trying to look as if he wasn't crying. That 
set me off again, and we kept it up together 
till the curtain rose/ u 

by Google 


Original from 



THERE arc 
men who, 
while they 
love a woman 
placidlyand faith- 
fully, can never 
rise to a height of 
passion ; and such 
a man was Lionel 
Maunder. He 
lived primarily 
for his work, 
being a writer of 
books; and he 
lived also to ex- 
tract from life its 
quietest and most 
lasting pleasures. 
He loved his wife, 
his home, his 
library, and his 
cigars ; he loved 
also in the morn- 
ing to sit at his 
neatly - arranged 
desk and work 
upon a manu- 
script until noon. 

He liked comfort 
himself, but he 

was anxious that those who were around him 
should be in a similar comfort; and for his 
wife, Phyllis, he never wearied in solicitude. 
For the rest, he lived in a secluded world 
of books and their making. His friends, like 
himself, were writers ; and in this quiet, 
sheltered life, so comfortable, so secure — and 
so uneventful — his wife, Phyllis, lived and had 
her being. But to her it was no strange life. 
In her home, before she had left it to share 
Maunder's, there had been the same atmo- 
sphere of scholarly aloofness. Her father, a 
student of philosophy and a man of wealth and 
leisure, had loved the literary life and all who 
moved in its circle. To his country home had 
come the writers of promise and the writers 
who had achieved ; and here, too, had come 
Maunder. In a world of a certain eccentricity, 
both studied and real, he seemed to Phyllis 
the most homely man she had met. His 
gentleness and common-sense, and particularly 


of the 


Harry Harper 

IlKist rated t%y 

the air of modesty 
with which he 
spoke, had ap- 
pealed to her 
intensely ; and 
when he asked her 
to marry him she 
agreed to do so, 
quietly and with 

her life was very 
much the same — 
the same leisured 
ease, the same 
unruffled calm, 
and the feeling 
that a big, cruel 
world, beating 
somewhere with- 
out, could never 
force the bolts 
that guarded her. 
But Phyllis was 
not idle. 

"I'm going to 
help you, Lionel," 
she said. 

She became his 
________________ secretary, at his 

half - amused 
protest ; and a 
thoroughly good secretary Phyllis proved. 
She learned to write shorthand and to use 
a typewriter, and she took carbon copies of 
Maunder's business letters and filed them with 
scrupulous care. And Maunder wrote his 
books with a greater ease and pleasure. 

He wrote two novels a year with un- 
failing regularity ; they were good novels, 
too, novels which sold quite well. But in 
them, from cover to cover, there was to be 
found no spark of genius. Carefully written 
they were, with a soundly-constructed plot of 
subdued melodrama ; and Maunder put each 
book together in the manner of one who toys 
delicately with the pieces of a jig-saw puzzle. 
His characters, though they were well drawn, 
were like showmen's puppets : each came 
out at the right moment, did the right thing, 
and spoke the right word. Maunder worked 
as he lived—quietlyO^iTtfil&Hliti-l-isure ; and 
he never allowed his books to worry him. 



One morning Phyllis woke and realized, while 
she was sipping her tea, that thirty years 
of her life had sped. It was, indeed, her 
thirtieth birthday ; and she knew that 
downstairs would be a token from her 
husband, chosen with exquisite taste, and 
many letters and parcels from the thoughtful, 
fastidious circle of their friends. 

She looked at herself in the mirror, and there 
was reflected back to her a quiet, smooth, 
unlined face, framed by hair of so dark a 
brown that it seemed almost black ; a face 
that had in it wisdom, and yet the simplicity 
of a child ; a face across which neither trouble 
nor sorrow had written their tell-tale lines, 
nor the stress of great emotion. 

But it was the expression of this face, 
appearing to watch her from the glass, that 
arrested Phyllis 's attention ; and particularly 
the expression of the eyes. They seemed to 
her to be veiled and clouded, somehow to have 
lost their lustre ; and into her mind — hyper- 
sensitive from her seclusion, and ready on 
the instant to leap to an impulse or a thought 
— came some lines of tragedy from a book 
she had read : — 

And when he looked into her eyes their light was 
gone ; and it could never return, because she was 
growing old. 

Phyllis shivered ; it was as though, in her 
well-warmed, well-protected life, someone 
had left a window open and in had rushed 
a chilling blast. 

Then, feeling that something strange and 
rather terrifying had moved suddenly within 
her, she went down to breakfast and found 
Lionel smiling and well content. 

" I've not forgotten, pet," he said, and there 
was the dainty jeweller's case upon the table 
at her side. 

Usually, when she came within her 
husband's atmosphere, being so susceptible 
to the influence of others, Phyllis experienced 
an answering glow. 

But this morning Phyllis detected a new 
attitude in her mind. To his quietly-spoken 
greetings she found herself replying like an 
automaton ; she experienced a strangely 
dull calm, in which her thoughts moved 
slowly but inexorably, and her husband's 
words seemed empty and the man himself 
futile. Astonished and ashamed at this 
sudden treachery, Phyllis awoke to battle 
with herself, but it was in vain. Somehow, 
by some trick of the mind engendered by 
the shock that her mirror had given her, 
N e saw Lionel this morning in a new light. 

He seemed no more the bulwark, but the 
mere recluse — a man shutting himself foolishly 
from the world, withdrawing himself and all 
with him from a contact with actuality ; a 
man who strove to tread on cotton-wool when 
his pavement, like that of other men, should 
have been of stone. A strange rebellion 
seemed to burn in Phyllis's blood, and these 
searing thoughts made her inwardly 

But Lionel, placidly unaware of the tempest 
raging near him, was reading extracts from hi? 

" Grant will be coming for the week-end," he 
said. " That will be all right, won't it ? " 

" Quite," answered Phyllis, dully. 

" And — oh, by the way ; Grant says if I 
don't mind he'll be bringing a man with him. 
Just listen to what he says : — 

" ' Ralph Courlander's in town again — came in from 
goodness knows what corner of the world ; and now 
he'll either settle down in some country village and 
become a churchwarden, or else he'll buy an armoury 
of guns and pistols and sail next month for any spot 
on the earth's surface where there promises to be blood 
and combat. Really, my dear Maunder, you should 
study this man and get him into a book ; face, body, 
limbs, and speech — just as he is ; because in our 
comfortably-ordered little world he is that anachronism 
— a man who acts sheerly and solely upon the impulse 
of the moment, whatever that impulse may be, and 
wherever it may lead/ 

" Sounds primitive, but promising," said 
Lionel, with an easy laugh. " As long as he 
doesn't fire revolvers in the library, I'm sure 
I sha'n't mind." 


They sat round the library fire on the 
evening Grant and his friend had arrived. 
Grant, a pedantic but pleasant little man, 
had a Government post of unimpeachable 
security, and ample leisure in which to study 
the literature of English history, which was 
his hobby. 

On the sofa, stretching his huge length in 
careless ease, sat " the wild man," as Maunder 
had nicknamed his new guest playfully, even 
before his advent. 

Ralph Courlander was no mystery, no 
strange freak or throw-back of his time. 
He was merely a primitive man, moving in a 
world of artificiality ; and his fellow-men, 
examining and making a wonder of his 
impulsive, simple acts, merely illustrated, 
although they did not realize it, the conven- 
tionality to which they were bound. Cour- 
lander was wealthy ; he avoided deliberately 
all that savoured of a responsibility or of 
a tie ; and when primitive impulse cried to 



him he listened willingly, and betook himself 
from the eight of civilized men. 

" Yes, off again," he would remark to some 
clubman with an air of unconcern ; and 
London would not see him for six months, 
or perhaps a year. 

Courlander said what he liked and did 
what he liked ; and if people or things failed 
to amuse him, he did not in the least mind 
revealing the fact. Altogether a strange and 
rather disconcerting man — according to urfbal 
standards. And in face and form Ralph 
Courlander was singularly true to type. His 
eyes were dark and normally rather sleepy ; 
his face was heavy, strong, and hard cut, 
with a big mouth and a great square chin, 
and his upper lip was hidden by a drooping 
moustache. His voice ordinarily was quiet 
and even, though vibrating, revealing a self- 
control which even he found it wise to exercise 
when in the haunts of gentle nien. But, 
should he rouse himself and say the things he 
really felt, the man's voice rang with a harsh 
and dominant note, and his face sprang 
to life and the whole of his body seemed to 
glow and to expand. 

Towards Grant his attitude came perilously 
near the contemptuous. At Maunder he 
looked a little perplexedly, as though not 
quite placing him in his mind ; and yet he 
was not a boor. He would talk when drawn, 
and talk well, albeit carelessly, and to one 
like Maunder, living a well-padded existence, 
his tales of wild life came as a mental thrill. 

Of Phyllis, at first, Courlander took little 

" Do you write, too ? " he asked her. 

" Only letters on the typewriter, and my 
tradesmen's lists," she answered, smiling. 

Courlander responded to the smile per- 
functorily. Women either interested him or 
they did not. For months on end he had 
no need of their society, or that of any folk 
save those of the wild ; and then perhaps, by 
the merest chance, some woman's face would 
set his heart beating — which was simply 
saying again that Courlander was true to his 

Phyllis, with her face in repose, did not 
attract, for then she was merely quiet and 
gentle. Her beauty lay in her expression, 
and in the way her eyes would leap to a vivid 
life and mirror the thought that might come 
swiftly to her mind. 

But after they had dined, she and Cour- 
lander found themselves thrust upon each 
other. Courlander had told Maunder tales 
until he was tired of doing so ; and in the 
bookish talk that seemed the only medium of 

VoL xlviiL— 26. 

exchange between his host and Grant he 
was frankly uninterested. So he began to 
speak to Phyllis, and the slightly bored way 
in which he did so, as though addressing 
some grown-up child, piqued her. 

" D'you ride ? " he asked. 

" No ; Lionel wouldn't hear of it." 

" Play golf, of course ? " 

" Just a little — with Lionel sometimes." 

Courlander smothered a yawn. Other men 
might have concealed their lack of interest, 
but he could not. 

And Phyllis found herself in a curious frame 
of mind. A burden of disillusionment had, 
during the day, weighed and pressed upon her ; 
but now, as she sat with Courlander near the 
fireplace in the hall, and met this big, lazy 
man's challenge to her woman's wit, a spark 
seemed to flash alight within her. Phyllis 
no longer existed ; she lived. And her face 
and her eyes began to live, too. She talked 
and laughed, and finally she sang ; and she 
revealed a charm that was half-unconscious, 
and as precious and delicate as some rare 

Courlander was surprised — an unusual 
experience for him. Also, and what is more 
important, his curiosity was aroused, and 
when Courlander was curious, being a primitive 
man, he was eager to know — to set at rest 
the itch within his mind. There was in the 
smile Phyllis flashed at him something he did 
not understand — even he, a fairly thorough 
student of women, men, and beasts. In that 
smile there was boldness, a spice of provoca- 
tion ; and yet, at the same time, it carried 
the disarming innocence of a child. From 
curiosity, Courlander passed to active 
interest, more particularly as he realized that 
this girl - woman was — with an artlessness 
which delighted him when he saw it was 
natural — striving to impress him. 

But as his face woke to a sudden zest, and 
his voice took the low and confidential note 
which he had found with women to answer 
well, Courlander experienced another surprise. 

" Tell me about yourself," he had said. 
" How on earth do you pass your time ? " 

But Phyllis withdrew into a quick and 
sudden reserve. It was as though something 
in his face or voice had startled her — had 
warned her, while she herself was unconscious 
almost that a warning had been received. 
And Courlander told himself, with the sudden 
relish of a hunter, that here was a delicate 
game to play ; here, where he had least 
expected it, was a problem that might 
fascinate a man until tie could solve it, and 
keep hiii \v\[& en edge. AuAj sJxrve all else, 



Courlander hated being bored. So at once, 
like an expert swordsman who meets in the 
dark some strange and doubtful blade, he 
leapt to attention and a full concentration 
of his faculties. 


The next day, Sunday, was windy, wet, 
and boisterous, and Maunder and Grant did 
not trust themselves out of doors, but sat 
snugly in the library and continued their 

After lunch Courlander, now discreetly 
upon his quest, said to Phyllis : — 

" Won't you wrap up warmly and come 
for a walk on the Downs ? " 

To her the project savoured of an adventure, 
because as a rule, acting upon Maunder's 
solicitous warning, she remained indoors 
should the weather be wet or cold. But 
to-day, throwing the weight of his will into 
the balance, and laughing good-humouredly 
at Maunder 's protests, Courlander bore Phyllis 
off upon the tingling, wind-swept Downs, and 
so entered at once into his kingdom and his 

Striding freely with his head thrown back, 
and drinking in the wet-tinged rush of air, 
Courlander was that final triumph of Nature's 
craft — a well-formed, clear-eyed, healthy 
man ; and as he walked, with his big body 
alert, supple, and exquisitely balanced, he 
turned to Phyllis with a laugh. 

" D'you know," he said, " this is the 
weather I really come back to England for 
— the weather I think about when I'm away." 

Phyllis looked up at him from her furs. 
She had seen no man quite like this before. 
His mere physical perfection had upon her 
senses an effect she could not gauge. She 
looked at him, and looked again ; and what 
with the wind and the exercise, and the 
protecting proximity of his muscular body — 
as he opened the gates and shielded her from 
the gusts which tore through gaps in the 
hedges — Phyllis felt a tingling and a dancing 
of the blood within her veins. At first, 
though, before she yielded to the hour and 
the mood, she had tried to think — to analyze 
herself ; but soon she ceased to think at all, 
and just pressed on into the wind by this 
man's side — every nerve and pulse alive and 
free, and revelling in their freedom. Her 
step went light, her heart beat quick ; she 
lived for the moment, and for the moment 

And Courlander talked — about anything, 
about everything ; and the scheme of his 
talk was this — to follow the woman in her 

mood of exhilaration, to profit by the licence 
of the wind-blown Downs, to break the first 
barrier of her reserve, and to see what manner 
of prize might lie within. 

And Phyllis talked too — talked herself 
breathless in the wind ; and her eyes danced 
and her cheeks glowed ; she was childish, and 
womanly, and wise, and she showed glimpses 
of her soul : and she had no thought or 
suspicion that she was stepping into a deftly- 
laid snare ; that she was revealing just those 
motive-springs of thought and fancy that 
Courlander had framed his speech to 

As he walked, and talked, and listened, and 
carelessly breasted the vicious gusts, Cour- 
lander felt a wave of exultation sweep over 
him. For here, he told himself, was a woman 
unspoilt and rare ; a jewel neglected, among 
the counterfeits of life. Her emotions pro- 
mised to be as varied and sweetly vibrant as 
the strings upon a harp ; yet — and this to 
Courlander was the revelation — they still 
waited him who might play upon them. And 
Courlander ached for swift conquest ; he 
longed to imprint roughly his personality 
upon this sensitive, half-shrinking, half- 
yielding woman ; he longed to mould her to 
his wishes and desires, to make her see life 
and passion through his eyes. 

But, like the good hunter he was, Cour- 
lander still trod warily and softly, and hid 
the ardour of his desire. 

So, in a word, did he play the hunter's 
game ; only this time it was a woman, and 
not only a woman, but a woman's soul, that 
was his goal and prey. And he found it a 
game that engrossed his every thought and 
sense ; and for the reason t*hat the woman 
came warily as a bird towards his trap, and 
yet as innocently. 

Of ultimate purpose in his desperate 
wooing, Courlander had ncne ; and in this 
regard, having no thought beyond the morrow, 
he was the truly primitive man. 

" I want this woman ; I mean to have 
her," so Courlander told himself. 

But what became of her or of him, after he 
had made his conquest, did not concern or 
vex his mind. And it is for this reason 
that, when he is born anew into a world of 
civilization, the primitive man sweeps 
swiftly to his goal. 

For the rest, Courlander's plan was quite 
hackneyed, but none the less efficacious. It 
included theatres and motor rides and stolen 
teas and dinners — all with a careful glamour 
thrown lipDn them, and w;ith an unflagging 







chivalry to mask the trail of passion ; and, 
all the time, he poisoned gradually the 
woman's mind towards that which held her 
upon the path of safety. No new or surprising 
lover was Courlander ; but what he lacked 
in initiative, he made up for in strength and 


" To-night, then, dearest, if things can be arranged 
so well. Eight o'clock sharp at Charing Cross. Then 
we shall have time for a little dinner, at some restaurant 
near, before the train goes. Bring with you only just 
what you will want on the journey. We can run 
round the shops in Paris before we go on to Tangier/' 

So on wrote Courlander, finishing with a 
conventional rhapsody. The obviousness of 
the whole thing, its vulgarity, were lost upon 
Phyllis ; and for the reason that she was 
on an ab»ormal mental plane. The cheap 
potency of the lure, the crudity of running 
away from her husband upon the traditional 
road to Paris, with its hot-house dreams of 
folly, made no impression upon her mind. 
Can we ever realize, step by step, how we 
have reached a crisis ? Can a woman go 
back link by link and see how her emotions 
have been played upon and sounded, how her 
scruples have been stilled and overcome — 
how, by an insidious process of listening to 
the rosy call, she has temporarily forsaken 
reason, and is living in a world the values of 
which are shadowy and unreal ? 

All that day there reigned in Phyllis's 
mind a quiet and icy calm. She faced her 
husband and her home with wide, unfaltering 

" Any letters for me to do, Lionel ? " 

She sat at her table in the library, and her 
voice did not quaver. She did not marvel at 
herself, either, having ceased to marvel at 
anything. Not once did she consider the 
enormity of her intended act. Even why 
she was doing it she could not have explained. 
She would do it ; that was all she knew. 
From stage to stage she had passed, and 
passed insensibly ; until now she faced com- 
posedly that which, but a week or so before, 
she would have recoiled from with a cry. 

Intellect and emotion had fought tjheir 
duel, and emotion had won. Her brain, 
through the years, had been well fed and was 
content ; but her emotions had been starved ; 
and it was to her emotions, to the romance 
that lay stifled in her woman's heart, that 
Courlander had addressed his appeal. And 
they, in a sudden tumult, had risen and 
drowned the warnings of her brain. 

Everything was easy — a child's play of 
intrigue j it is {he simplicity of a vast e r for 

that appals. Phyllis and her husband had 
come to their flat in town ; and there were 
artist friends of Maunder's who, preparing a 
little amateur play, had insisted that Phyllis 
should join them and take a part. So, when 
she slipped out with a handbag, leaving a 
message for Lionel which might lead him to 
think she had been called to a rehearsal, there 
was no comment or question in the quiet 

Her face burned as she sat in the taxi, but 
her hands were cold and damp. She sat 
quite still, scarcely moving her head, and 
breathing faintly. Lights flashed past her, 
there was a constant noise of traffic in 
her ears ; but it seemed to her that she was a 
graven figure sitting in a timeless void, and 
with her world the walls of the cab in which 
she sat. Of remorse or excitement she felt 
none ; but, with that portion of her brain 
which still worked normally, she now felt a 
wish that her destination might never be 
reached, that she might ride thus for ever in a 
voiceless calm. 

But there came duly the twist into the 
station yard, the jerk at the kerb — and 
Courlander. He came forward with quick 
steps, showing his strong white teeth in a 
hurried, eager smile. 

" Dearest ! " he whispered. " At last, 
dearest ! " 

His tone was a burning, impatient caress. 

Phyllis looked up at him anxiously ; she 
longed for a sweetness and gentleness that 
might reassure her. But, somehow or other, 
in a way she could not understand, his 
proximity sent a sudden chill through her 
veins. Somehow, there seemed ^an oddness 
and strangeness in his manner ; he seemed 
restless, almost brusque. 

And as they drove up the Strand to a 
quiet restaurant he had chosen, Courlander 
began to make his error. His fault was very 
human — he was too sure of his victory ; dis- 
carded too abruptly his disguise. He thought 
all obstacles had vanished, while, in fact, 
some still remained. He dropped in a trice 
the refinements of the chase and gloated 
crudely in his conquest. Slipping his arms 
round Phyllis beneath her wraps, he drew 
her almost roughly to him. 

" Mino> darling ; mine now ! " cried this 
primitive man, his voice hoarse with passion. 
" Say you're mine, little Phyllis — all mine." 

Even in the corridor of the restaurant, 
when he observed it momentarily empty, he 
pressed her to him hotly, over-riding all 
delicacy and reserve ; and as they sat at the 
table \yailiny for their meal his foot touched 





■ ( 






hers constantly, and he devoured her with 
eyes that glittered. 

And Phyllis, under the now unconcealed 
passion of his voice and glance, was like one 
who emerges from the influence of an 
anaesthetic. All day her brain had been 
numbed, but now — scorched by its proximity 
to this burning flame — it awoke suddenly and 
became acutely perceptive. For an instant, 
as it were, her faculties hung in a critical 
balance. She realized herself and her 
position ; she realized that she sat in this 
restaurant with this man, that she was about 
to commit herself to him, that the dreams 
and imaginings had reached their culmina- 
tion. Smitten with an aching sense of her 
helplessness and inexperience, she yearned 
for some complete and gentle reassurance, for 
some sign from the man that he probed 
her mood, was sure and delicate in his taqt, 
quickly responsive in his sympathy. 

And as her woman's sense cried out, her 
nerves on edge, she looked across at Cour- 
lander with troubled, appealing eyes — and, 
in a blinding flash, seemed to see and to 

She looked for a face opposite her that 
should understand her plight, should be alert 
to tide over the crisis and to smooth the way ; 
and instead she seemed to see a mask, and not 
a man's face — a hard, dominant, wholly 
sensual mask ; and, in the eyes which 
watched her with the fixed, attentive light 
of some creature with its prey, she saw a look 
such as she had never seen in man's eyes 
before, but which her woman's instinct, leap- 
ing unbidden to her aid, told her was more 
animal than human ; told her was of the 
earth earthy. She sensed the unthinking, 
clamouring nakedness of the call ; it writhed 
like a serpent into her tender, romantic Eden ; 
and, with all the delicacy of her mind, she 
shuddered and recoiled. 

" You're pale, dearest." 

Courlander leaned across the table towards 
her and imprisoned one of her hands. 
Passion had dulled his perceptions ; he 
saw only the woman's body, and could not 
follow the workings of her mind. 

She sat for an instant mute, like a caged 
bird, every muscle tense, yet not daring to 
withdraw her hand ; and then, as her cheeks 
flushed suddenly crimson, she answered him 
mechanically : — 

" A little tired, I think — nothing much." 

Explanation was impossible, argument pur- 
poseless ; yet, with an intensity that sent a 
throbbing to her temples, she longed for 

The rest of the meal, short though it was, 
became an agony to Phyllis. She continued 
to play her part, but it was pitifully done ; 
and yet Courlander, inflamed by his triumph, 
suspected nothing. They came out again 
into the street, where their taxi waited, and 
drove to the station; and all the time, like 
that of some poor trapped thing, Phyllis 's 
heart beat with the desire for freedom. 

She glanced here and there as they entered 
the station, but Courlander towered by her 
side. A wild wish to cry aloud assailed her, to 
call upon someone to save her from her fate ; 
and then she heard Courlander speak. 

" Wait here just a moment, dearest." 

Dimly at first, but then acutely, she saw him 
walk away to the window where luggage was 
being registered. 

In an instant she had steeled her limbs 
to act. Without a falter, or one backward 
glance, she turned and sped into the con- 
fusion of the station yard ; and in another 
second or so, gasping for breath and trembling 
violently, she was sitting far back in a taxi 
and whirling away from the station through 
Trafalgar Square. 

" So you've got back, pet ? " said Maunder, 
a little absently, glancing up from the book 
he was reading under the library lamp. 

" Yes," repeated Phyllis, " I've got back." 

Some foreign note in her voice caught 
Maunder's ear ; • but the impression faded 
quickly and he returned placidly to his book. 

The fire burned brightly, the lamp-shade 
softened the light in the room, and Phyllis, 
her head aching dully and her nerves just 
waking to their hours of pain, looked upon the 
same quiet scene of peace and comfort. 

by Google 

Original from 



In the Home of tne Blizzard. 


In tkis an J the following article Sir Douglas Mawson tells for the first time 
in detail the story of his thrilling experience in the Antarctic regions* in 
the course of which both his companions lost their lives, and he himself, 
after perhaps the most terrific perils out of which any adventurer has 
ever escaped alive, was just ahle to reach safety. These articles are fully 
illustrated by some most remarkable photographs and by drawings made 
under. Sir Douglas Mawson s personal supervision. 

FhflUgrafihs fy / + J-\ fturfrj', txtcfit wktrt #tk*rw$i* mentioned. 



The Australian Antarctic 

EFORE entering 
upon my story 
it is necessary to 
put the reader 
in possession of 
certain facts relating to the 
scope and the results of 
the recent Australasian 
Antarctic Expedition of 
which I was the leader, 
account is now being written 
shortly in book form. 
The expedition worked for 










Fhoto. K A. Svatnt. 

The complete 
and will appear 

two years and 

Copyright, rqi+, by Douglas ^^a 

three months in the icy 
regions southward of Aus- 
tralia, The sphere of action 
was new and unusually ex- 
tensive, with the result 
that I shall have to tell not 
only of the discovery of 
new lands, but of some very 
remarkable phenomena not 
falling within the range of 
other Antarctic expeditions. 
Furthermore, the records of the expedition 
are unique in the number of illustrations and 
the range of subject^ I fJ Jh Hurley occupied 
the V°^:&3ffft'lhW($^ on the 




expedition and 
the photographs 
here reproduced, 
which are for 
the most part 
Hurley's taking, 
are sufficient 
proof of his 

Thes.y, Aurora 
left Hobart on 
December 2nd, 
191 1, fully 
equipped for the 
geographical in- 
ve s ligations 
which were to 
be conducted 
through sixty 
degrees of longi- 
tude westward 
of the sphere of 
Scott's and 
Shackleton's late 

Captain J. K. 
Davis, already at 
that time known 
as a capable Ant- 
arctic navigator j 
was second in command, and held the post 
of master of the vessel. The ship's company 
comprised, all told, twenty-five men ; the 
land parties thirty-one men^ the latter chiefly 
young graduates of the Australasian univer- 
sities. There were on board several units, 


e a c h compns- 
ing a hut, food, 
and a complete 
wintering and 
sledging equip- 
ment. It was 
our intention to 
land eacSt of 
these at widely- 
separated spots, 
all to co-operate 
in a simul- 
taneous effort 
to explore by 
sledging Jour- 
neys the neigh- 
bouring regions. 
There were also 
fifty Greenland 
sledge - dogs on 


Is and, 
Island, some 
twenty miles in 
length, situated 
nine hundred 
miles south- 
south-east of Hobart, was the first objec- 
tive. There the smallest unit— a party of 
five men— was landed. Amonpt their equip- 
ment was a complete wireless installation. 
The engines, masts, and huts comprising the 
latter were hauled up the precipitous sides of 




A^^T3^"^ioif MICHIGAN 



Un fortunately 
there is an ab- 
sence of harbours s 
and the coasts are 
rocky and dan- 
gerous, so that we 
were glad to get 
a^vay once more 
on our southward- 
bound voyage. 

Pack - ice was 
met in latitude 64 
south s and the 
ship was driven to 
the westward, 
making repeated 
attempts at break- 
ing through. The 
icebergs reached 
dimensions j being 
met with up to 
forty miles in 

Naming* and 

Exploring New 
It was a happy 
d a y w h e n^ on 





a flat-topped hill three hundred feet above 
the sea, and erected upon the summit. The 
great labour involved was well repaid, for the 

tion subsequently proved an unqualified 
success. Daily weather reports were dispatched 
to Australia, New Zealand, and shipping in 
the southern seas, 

Maequarie Island is one of the most wonder- 
ful spots in the whole world for animal life and 
is a naturalist's paradise. The most striking 
inhabitants are the sea-elephants , which reach 
twenty feet in length. In lieu of fresh meat, 
the tongue particularly was regarded as a deli- 
cacy, and with those remaining on the island 
came to form an important item on the menu. 

Vol xLvUL-26. 


January 6th, the pack was negotiated and 
new land seen ahead, This we included 
under the name of Addle Land, as it lay 
immediately east of that so named, seen 
by Admiral D'Urville in the year 1840. 
A rocky p^l^-^i^^e named Cape 




Den is on was s eke ted for a 
wintering station for the Main 
Base party. There eighteen of 
us, including myself, were landed 
with a hut and stores* Captain 
Davis then took the ship westward 
with the object of dropping a 
smaller western party to winter 
on new land in that direction. In 
blizzard and sunshine they pushed 
their way west, traversing the 
pack-strewn ocean, always probing 
as far south as possible in search 
of land. New land was discovered. 

"Nothing So Daring Had Been 

Attempted Before/' 
In longitude 95 east the ship 
was again off new landj but on 
account of the solid frozen sea 
could not approach within seven- 
teen miles of the coast* However, 
a floating tongue of land-ice ex- 
tending far out to sea was 
reached } and upon it the western 
party were landed with their hut 
and stores, As a site for a winter- 
ing station nothing so daring had 
been attempted before either in 
the Arctic or Antarctic. They 
could never rest without the feel- 
ing that they might one day wake 












up to find that they had commenced a voyage 
on nothing more substantial than an iceberg. 
The air-line distance between the two 
Antarctic bases was eleven hundred miles. 
After the work of hoisting all the require- 
ments of the party up the eighty feet of 
perpendicular ire-cliff — a total weight of 
thirty-six tons— the ship It ft without delay 
on the long voyage back to Ho bar t. 

Work and Adventures at the Main Base. 

Upon the departure of the vessel we at the 
main base in Adclie L:md hastened with the 
erection of the living-hut, and a programme 
of scientific observations was commenced. 

Even before the Aurora had left sufficient 
had been experienced to indicate that the 
average weather of that vicinity is worse 
than anything before met with in the Antarc- 
tic regions. One gale followed another with 
scarcely any interims s ion < With the advent 
of autumn the storms became distinctly 
*orse, and after March 2nd there was no 
proper break until the 16th of the following 
November. During that time the wind-force 


varied between that of a gale and that of the 
most violent hurricane. Only rarely were 
there lapses of a few hours' duration when 
anything approximating to a calm was 
experienced. Our self-recording instruments 
showed that the maximum number of miles 
travelled by the wind in any one hour was 
one hundred and sixteen, but at times the 
wind came down in gusts of much greater 
violence, blowing down strongly-built struc- 
tures and lifting small stones. 

This river of air rushing unceasingly down 
from the plateau of the great Antarctic 
continent came loaded with more or less drift- 
snow, so that it was often impossible to see 
one's hand in front of one.. For days together 
not a glimpse would be caught of the neigh- 
bouring landscape. Through it the daylight 
came fitfully, and in the winter darkness 
weird lights* played about on all exposed 
objects. Such is the weather of Adelie Land 
— unparalleled by anything else on earth, 

Madigan, Webb, Bage, and others whose 

* St. Elmo's fir*, cauted by a discharge of *lretricity from tbt 




duties con- 
nected with 
the scientific re- 
cords took 
them out of 
doors, stuck 
heroically to 
their task. In 
the densest 
drifts, at times 
with the tem- 
perature at 
—28 Fahren- 
heit and the 
wind in the 
vicinity of one 
hundred miles 
per hour, they 
dived out into 
the storm -whirl 
and felt their 
way to the in- 
struments, The 
snow, driven 
with such 
velocity and 
warmed by 
the vaporous 
exhalat i ons 
from the body, 
quickly formed 
a mask of ice 
over the face. 
Firmly at- 
tached to the 
face by involv- 
ing the beard 
and eyelashes, 
this plate of ice 
served a useful 
purpose in 
sheltering the 
otherwise ex- 
posed flesh from 

the penetrating wind. It had to he frequently 
broken away to allow of free breathing. Tins 
operation, unless carefully executed t was 
liable to result in scratching of the cornea of 
the eye by pieces of the ice — a painful matter. 
Upon returning to the hut the mask would 
be removed by plucking it piecemeal from the 
face ; or, as some preferred, by allowing it 
first to partially thaw, so as to avoid dragging 
hairs out by the roots* On one occasion, 
Madigan having removed most of the ice 
from his face, was seen to be vainly endeavour- 
ing to rid himself of a portion of a hard- 
frozen cheek under the impression that it was 
a lump of ice ! 


Extended sledging was impossible , though 
repeated attempts were made to investigate 
the near vicinity. Tents similar to those 
used by previous Antarctic expeditions were 
found quite inadequate to cope with the 
winds. They were, in fact, quickly torn to 
ribbons. Much stronger tents were then 
constructed, and eventually all the gear 
transformed to meet the new circumstances. 

i( Aladdin's Cave/' 

At a spot on the ice-sheet five and a half 
miles south of the hut, at an elevation of 
fifteen hundred feet, a cave was excavated 
in the blue ice to be used as a shelter for 





I \n 

£1 ^L H^ /I 

^1 ■■ ^^_. ^^ 


1 ^bb! 



L J H| ^A V 1 
li <t 



future sledging parties. There a quantity 
of stores was accumulated, awaiting 
an improvement in the weather before 
pushing out further afield. After sledging in 
the miserable weather outside, the comfort of 
this cave appeared truly magical, and won for 
it the name of Aladdin's Cave, Magical 
indeed was the comfort of this sanctuary 
after marching in the piercing, drift-laden 
wind or sleeping in the confined space oi a 
sledging tent. With the entrance properly 
blocked, scarcely a sound of the turmoil 
without was to be heard. Shelves were 
quickly hacked out in the ice- walls when 
additional space was required- Though there 

were no win- 
dows, an ample 
supply of light 
filtered through 
the ice - roof. 
Water was 
always at hand, 
it being neces- 
sary only to 
break ice from 
the wall and 
melt it over the 
Primus. A 
narrow crevasse 
crossing one 
part of the floor 
might have 
been provided 
purposely to re- 
ceive the slops 
and refuse, A 
small hole lead- 
ing into another 
crevasse was 
the ventilator. 
On retiring to 
rest, spare gar- 
ments taken off 
p r c v i o u s to 
entering the 
s 1 e e p i n g-bag 
could he hung 
upon the wall 
just as conveni- 
ently and neatly 
as in any house, 
it being neces- 
sary merely to 
press a corner 
of a garment 
wetted in the 
mouth against 
the icc-wa) 1, 
where in a moment it would remain frozen 
on firmly. 

An incident of special note connected with 
Aladdin's Cave happened during the summer. 
Still well. Close j and Laseron were camped 
there during an unusually heavy fall of snow. 
So buried did they become that the ventila- 
tion failed, The Primus burning under 
a pot of hoosh used up all the oxygen, 
and they suddenly, without warning, became 
unconscious, Stillwell and Laseron went 
down like ninepins, but ('lose as he fell just 
managed to stagger to the entrance and push 
an ice-axe through the snow plugging, letting 
in fresh air. 'Iffi "Wiis loiig afterwards before 



any of them came round — and 
they were fortunate not to have 
fared worse. 

Adventures and Discoveries by 

Different Parties: Adding New 

Land to the Map. 

In early September three par- 
ties set out over the inland-ice., 
travelling in as many directions, 
Each was provided with some- 
what differently-constructed gear. 
The object was to see what could 
be done in the face of such 
weather. Two of the parties re- 
turned after a few most miser- 
able days with tents badly torn 
and their equipment otherwise 
damaged by the wind. 

Madigan, Whetter, and Close^ 
who went west, reached a dis- 
tance of fifty miles from winter 
quartersj at an elevation of four 
thousand feet. Their tent held 
out until within twenty-five miles 
of home ? when it was torn to 
pieces. Then there was nothing 
to do but set out for the nearest 
shelter j without anything to 
drink or warm to eat. Fortu- 
nately Aladdin's Cave was reached 
safely, after a long and weary 
march pushing into the wind. 
The next day they arrived at the 
hut with ample scars. Close and 
Madigan were badly frostbitten. 
Whctters chief injury was the 
loss of a piece of skin and flesh 
under the chin — a scissors wound, 
inflicted by Madigan on an 
occasion when attempting to free 
a helmet firmly frozen on to 
Whetter's face* 











Under the influence of the wind the sea- 
i:e was broken up as quickly as it formed, 
so that along the Adelie Land coast there 
was never any possibility of sledging over 
the sea. This was a great disappoint- 
ment . The prospect of travelling over the 
inland -ice was not nearly so promising 
on account of the total absence in the 
interior of animal life available for food, 
the dangers of crevasses , and the stronger 
winds which we found to prevail on the 

As the summer approached a slight im- 
provement in the weather was noticeable. 

It is significant of the severity of the climate 
that the penguins were later in arriving on 
the shores of Adelie Land than in higher 
latitudes in the Ross Sea- 
Five parties set out early in November, 
travelling in different directions, each with a 
special objective. In that way a great area 
of new land was added to the map. The 
unusually adverse weather prevailing in 
Adelie Land increased the difficulties of 
sledging enormously- Lieutenant B. E. S. 
Ninnis, of the Royal Fusiliers, and Dr, X, 
Mertz both lost their lives, and there were 
many narrow escapes, I from 





Lieutenant N inn is, Dr, Mertz, and myself 
set out from winter quarters on November 
roth, Ninnis was an officer in the Royal 
Fusiliers, He was twenty-four years of age, and 
six feet four inches in height. A man of fine 
spirit and high courage, Mertz was a well-built 
man of five feet ten inches in height ; twenty- 
nine years of age ; a graduate of the 
Universities of Leipzic and Berne. He was a 
capable man of sterling qualities. Our object 
was to cross the high- 
lands to meet and 
delineate the coast at 
some distance to the 
east We were assisted 
by seventeen dogs 
dragging a load of 
seventeen hundred 
pounds. At Aladdin's 
Cave a halt was made 
for the night and fare- 
well taken of Bags, 
Webbj and Hurley, 
who formed the 
southern party and 
were pushing on to a 
second cave exca- 
vated in the plateau- 
ice five miles farther 
on their way. 

The following day 
there was a heavy 
snowfall and the wind 
rose. After a few 
miles 1 journey j travel- 
ling had to be sus- 
pended until the drift 
cleared sufficiently 
to allow us to see 
about and locate two other parties who 
had preceded us and were to await our 
arrival at a spot on the plateau some nineteen 
miles from the hut. It was not until the 
morning of November 16th that we were able 
to locate them. 

On the afternoon of November 17 th, final 
leave was taken of the other parties and we 
went on at a rapid pace, steering an easterly 
course across the plateau at an elevation of 
two thousand six hundred feet, The dogs 
were glad of the fine weather, after the 
miserable time they had spent for some 
days previously, buried in a snow-drift. The 
Joad was certainly not excessive, for it was 
difficult to prevent them rushing at an unduly 
rapid pace over the rough, wind - furrowed 
surface. Crossing these more than usually 





prominent sastrugi, capsizes happened rather 
frequently, Each took turns ahead breaking 
trail This usually meant someone running 
ahead of the leading dog-team. As the 
sastrugi were hard and their surfaces polished 
by the constant wind, falls happened 
frequently. However, as we were in good 
form, and our bodies well padded with 
clothing, they did not bo the ■ us particular!)'. 
Over such a surface ski are of no use. 
Nor could they be of 
service at any time 
in the normal windy 
weather of A d e 1 i c 
Land, except upon a 
c om para t i vely S rn oo t h 
surface and directly 
down wind, a combi- 
nation rarely met on 
any of our sledging 
journeys. We had 
with us at the time 
only one pair of ski, 
and these were almost 
exclusively used by 
Mertz, who was an 
expc r t ski-runner. 
Throughout the out- 
ward journey , when- 
ever the conditions 
were f a v o u r a h 1 e ? 
Mertz travelled on ski 
as forerunner. Except 
when taking a turn 
a head j I looked after 
the first of the two 
dog-teams, Ninnis or 
Hertz, as the ca&e 
might be, bringing up 
the rear with the second team. There were 
thus two teams of dogs, but three sledges: 
The front team dragging two sledges attached 
by a short length of Alpine rojie, each 
loaded with a quarter of the weight. The 
rear team dragged one sledge loaded with 
half the total weight. 

Upon any reasonable surface the dogs did 
splendid service and gave no trouble. 
Crossing erevassed ice, however, man-hauling 
has an advantage. In order to secure extra 
safety , we tried connecting the main hauling 
rope of the rear sledge to the tail end of 
the hinder of the two front sledges, This 
method proved unworkable, and had to be 

A magnificent view of the coast-line to the 
east was obuinecl cu the afternoon of Xovem- 




ber 1 7th* A solitary rocky hill projecting from 
the inland ice -sheet was passed on the left. 
The course was then altered more to the south 
towards a sharp, rock-tipped peak just 
visible to the south-south-east. Aurora Peak, 
as it was afterwards known, rises out of the 
deep valley of the Mertz Glacier to a height 
of nearly two thousand feet. It was obvious 
that we should have to cross the glacier, and 
on November 18th the descent was com- 
menced. The grade became very steep, and 
the sledge bounded down at a dangerous pace, 
capsizing frequently and causing a deal of 

" Hidden and Dangerous Crevasses." 

Passing the foot of Mount Aurora, we 
had not gone far out on to the glacier 
before the leading dogs of my team broke 
through into a crevasse ; a second afterwards 
two other dogs running loose by the sledge 
were nearly lost. From that time on, hidden 
and dangerous crevasses were all too frequent 
on the journey. For several succeeding days 
we worked our way through mazes of 
crevasses. Ninnis was unlucky from the very 
start. Perhaps I should say lucky, for on 
each of the two following days he had very 
narrow escapes. The first happened at our 
lunch halt on November 21st. He and I were 
walking back to the tent from a crevasse 
near by, which we had been photographing. 
Approaching the rear of the tent we diverged, 
he passing round on one side, I on the other. 
Suddenly a cry warned me that something 
was amiss, and swinging round could see 
nothing of my companion but his head and 
arms projecting from the ice. He was soon 
dragged * into safety, and, looking down 
into the black depths below, we realized how 
narrowly he had escaped. It was then found 
that the tent was pitched partly over the 
crevasse, and you may be sure we did not 
dally unduly over the meal. 

On the following day a call from Ninnis in 
the rear apprised us of the fact that his sledge 
had broken through. Fortunately it had 
caught just below the lid of the crevasse. He 
himself only just escaped. 

Leaving the Mertz Glacier, we travelled 
over a portion of the plateau at an elevation 
of two thousand five hundred feet. On the 
evening of November 26th a second sharp 
descent was met a hundred and thirty-five 
miles from the hut. Below was a broad 
depression occupied by the Ninnis Glacier. 
Beyond, at a distance of sixty miles, com- 
menced massive, rocky cliffs one thousand 
feet in height, standing out boldly against the 

Vol. xlvui.-27. 

ice and snow. The coast in this part ran 
farther south than we had anticipated. 

A week of dangerous and difficult travelling 
was spent in crossing the Ninnis Glacier. 
Several times the sledges broke through, but 
fortune always favoured us. It was with very 
happy hearts that we emerged from that 
death-trap and set out once again upon the 
solid ice of the plateau, determined on no 
account ever in the future to be caught in 
such shattered ice. 

On December 12th a splendid view of the 
coast-line ahead lay before us, a wonderful 
land upon which no one had ever before set 
eyes. By that time the load of foodstuffs 
was greatly reduced. It was decided, there- 
fore, in future, to continue with two sledges 
only. The third sledge was abandoned and 
loads adjusted, so that the rear sledge carried 
about forty-five pounds more weight than 
that in front. 

Ninnis had been suffering for some days 
from a gathering in one finger, and the throb- 
bing pain gave him no rest. He had 
had no sleep for several days preceding 
December 13th, but that morning I success- 
fully lanced the finger, giving much relief. 
Proceeding, though every precaution was 
taken to evade crevassed areas, we found 
ourselves once more involved in a dangerous 
stretch in the afternoon. Fortunately 
there was no mishap, and at midnight 
camp was pitched on a beautiful surface 
free from crevasses. The camp was nineteen 
hundred feet above sea-level, and we had 
travelled three hundred and five miles from 
the hut. Ninnis slept well, and felt ever so 
much better in the morning. * 

At noon on December 14th a halt was made 
to obtain a latitude determination. The 
temperature was then twenty-one degrees 
Fahrenheit. The day was gloriously fine, the 
best we had experienced on the whole journey. 
As Mertz went ahead on ski after lunch he sang 
student songs to while away the time. 

The Fatal Accident to Ninnis. 
We had not gone far when I jumped on 
to the sledge to rest and to give opportunity 
for the working up of the noon observation. 
The dogs padded on contentedly, scarcely 
knowing what to make of the happy change 
in the weather. Mertz had forged ahead 
about a quarter of a mile. Behind me 
came Ninnis, plodding along by the side 
of his sledge, with one hand supported 
in a sling. Glancing at the ground, I saw 
beneath my sledge the faint outline of a 

4 to 

The strand Magazine. 




passed over scores more dangerous in appear- 
ance, so, after calling bark a warning word to 
Ninnis, it was dismissed from my thoughts. 
Ninnis took the hint, for, looking back over my 
shoulder, I saw him commencing to swing the 
leaders so as to take the crevasse fair across 
instead of diagonally as I had done. When I 
next looked back it was in reply to the anxious 
gaze of Dr. Mertz, who had halted in his 
tracks in an attitude suggesting that some- 
thing was amiss. . Nothing met my eye but 
a single sledge -track running back into the 
distance, I was alone ! Where was Ninnis 
and his dogs and sledge ? 

Leaving my sledge, I hastened back along 
the track, thinking that possibly a rise in the 
ground curtailed the view. There was no such 
good fortune j however, for soon I was horrified 
to meet a gaping hole in the surface about 
eleven feet in diameter. The lid of the 
crevasse had broken in ! Two sledge-tracks 
led up to it on the far side, only one continued 
beyond. How was it that I had escaped ? My 
sledge had crossed diagonally, with greater 
probability of breaking the lid. The sledges 
were of almost equal weight, for since redis- 
tributing the loads a considerable weight of 
food had been consumed from the rear sledge. 
The only explanation appeared to lie in the 
fact that Ninnis had walked by the side of 
his sledge, whereas just before reaching the 
crevasse I had jumped on to mine. The 
weight of a man's body bearing on the area 

of his foot is a formidable load, and no 
doubt Ninnis thus broke through the arch 
of the roof. 

Desperate but Vain Attempts at Rescue. 

Frantically waving to Hertz to bring up 
my sledge, upon which was some Alpine rope, 
I leant over and shouted into the dark depths 
below. No sound came back except the 
moaning of a dog caught on a shelf just 
visible ? hundred and fifty feet down. The 
poor animal had a broken back, and was 
attempting to sit up with the front part of 
its body, whilst the hinder portion lay limp. 
Another dog was by its side, apparently 
quite dead* Caught near by was what appeared 
in the gloom to be the remains of the tent ; 
also a canvas tank containing food for three 
men for a fortnight. 

Wc took turns about leaning over the edge 
on a rope, calling into the darkness, in the 
hope that our companion' might be still alive. 
For three hours we called unceasingly, but 
no answering sound came back. The dog 
had ceased to moan and lay stiff, A chill 
draught flowed out of the hole. There 
appeared no hope for our comrade. 

By means of a fishing-line it was ascertained 
that the first sheer fall was a hundred and fifty 
feet. Then came a slight bend in the foot 
wall just at the ledge upon which the 
remains were to be seen. On either side of the 
"" M Y^e^ntgn dpwn into darkness. 


21 1 

Piecing together all the rope remaining, it 
was found insufficient to reach the ledge, 
and any idea of going below to investigate and 
secure some of the food had to be abandoned. 
Stock was then taken of what remained. 
There was a bare one and a half weeks' food 
for ourselves, and nothing at all for the dogs ! 
To make things worse, the tent, spade, ice- 
axe, and many other things were lost as well. 
Fortunately there was saved a spare tent- 
cover, Mertz lost his Burberry trousers and 
helmet. He had, however, another helmet 
well covered with Burberry, but the trousers 
were not so satisfactorily replaced. A pair 
of thick Jaeger under-trousers was forth- 
coming from amongst the spare clothing, and 
henceforth he donned those whenever extra 
warmth was required. 

Late in the afternoon we went on to a higher 
point ahead to get a better view of the 
vicinity, and there at three hundred and 
eleven miles from the hut a complete observa- 
tion for position was made. Back at the 
crevasse we voted ourselves a thin soup almost 
all water. The dogs were given old fur mitts 
and several spare raw-hide straps, which they 
ravenously demolished. We still continued 
to call down into the crevasse at regular 
intervals, in case Ninnis might not have been 
killed outright, and become conscious in the 
meantime. There was no reply. 

Before commencing the return journey I 
read the Burial Service, both of us standing 
by the crevasse. I can wpll recall, when the 
ceremony was over, Mertz's happier face and 
his short " Thank you ! " as he shook my 

Beginning the Fatal Journey Home. 

The homeward journey was commenced 
at 9 p.m. 

The outward tracks were followed back as 
far as the camp of the evening of December 
1 2th, where the remains of a sledge and a 
broken spade had been abandoned. In our 
plight the recovery of those articles was most 
important. Fortunately the weather held 
good. Had snow fallen there would have 
been no hope of recovering anything lying in 
that unbroken expanse. It was a reckless, 
wild dash of fourteen miles/for the most part 
over a dangerously crevassed surface. 

The old camp was reached safely in the 
early morning of December 15th. Mertz cut a 
runner of the broken sledge in halves, and 
used the two pieces in conjunction with his ski 

as a frame on which to pitch the spare tent- 
cover. Each time before this shelter could 
be erected there was a deal of lashing to do. 
It was altogether a most unhandy arrange- 
ment, compared with the bamboo poles that 
were lost. 

Deliberating as to the best route to adopt 
for the return journey, it was decided that a 
descent to the frozen sea would be dangerous 
on account of the heavily-crevassed nature 
of the coastal slopes, and would undoubtedly 
cause delay, for it would make the distance 
to the hut longer. To decide upon the sea- 
ice route would also be to take other risks 
as well, for from the altitude at which we 
stood, though we could see that the sea was 
covered with floe-ice, the nature of it as a 
travelling surface was entirely unknown. In 
any case, it was extremely likely to be 
breaking up, for it was high summer. On the 
other hand, on sea-ice there was a chance 
of obtaining seals for food. 

After due consideration, it seemed to us 
that, as the out- journey had acquainted us 
with the nature of the country, a return 
journey over the plateau, avoiding the well- 
known crevassed zones, could be made 
in quick time, and by eating some of 
the dogs the food supply would last out. 
The plateau route was adopted. George, 
the poorest of the dogs, was killed, and partly 
fed to the others, partly kept for ourselves. 
The meat was roughly fried on the aluminium 
lid of the cooker, an operation which resulted 
in little more than scorching the surface. 
Though it had a strong, musty taste, in 
the circumstances it was voted good. As the 
mugs and spoons were lost, pannikins were 
improvised out of two tins ht which cart- 
ridges and matches had been packed. Mertz 
carved wooden spoons out of a portion of 
the broken sledge. 

In the fine weather which favoured us at the 
time the sun made the surface sticky during 
the day. In the evening, with the sun low 
down, the surface became crisp and the 
sledges dragged more easily, so we decided 
to travel at night. 

Camp was broken at 6 p.m., and the long 
and painful journey commenced. Long and 
painful we were indeed prepared to find it, 
but little at that moment did I foresee the 
anguish of the days before us, during which 
I was to lose my other friend and comrade, 
and from which I was only to escape with my 
own life as by a miracle. 

{To be concluded.) 




T twenty minutes past eight 
on a dark , pleasantly warm 
autumnal evening Mr. Lionel 
Cutts sallied out into the 
streets of Norwich in search 
of adventures. His mind was 
pleasantly free from all sense 
of responsibility. He had glanced in at the 
boots' office to be sure that his sample-cases 
were in order and a porter and barrow duly 
commanded for the following morning, He 
had written a full account to his employers 
of his doings in a neighbouring town, had 
enclosed a very creditable sheet of orders, 

Copyright, 1914, by E, 



Illustrated by Tom Pedaie, 

and the usual grumble as to the immoral 
t om petit ion indulged in by a rival firm — 
which competition 9 he managed to hint 
delicately, might have resulted in a serious 
loss of business but for his own personal 
popularity with his customers. He was 
fortified by the recent consumption of his 
favourite meal — a hearty meat tea — a repast 
of which he was secretly ashamed but to 
which he still clung ; and he was conscious 
more than ever of that curious and most 
unaccountable thrill which nearly always 
stirred his pulses when he sallied out after 
his day's work into the gas-lit streets of 
some little-known town. For Lionel Cutts, 
although an excellent commercial traveller, 
and a young man oE regular habits and 
blameless life, was an exceedingly romantic 

The direction which his wanderings took 
was in itself a proof of his eccentricity. He 
deliberately avoided the crowded main street. 
The cinema palaces, so far as he was concerned , 
displayed in vain their flamboyant signs. The 
huge advertisements of a world-famed circus 
left him unmoved, He wandered instead 

3tei^**^ fefiazed up at the 



gloomy, ivy-covered houses, listened to the 
rustling of the wind in the elm trees, pursued 
for some distance the path which skirted the 
turgid river. He could never explain, even 
to himself, the satisfaction which he un- 
doubtedly derived from such peregrinations. 
He only knew that he lost count of himself, 
felt imbued with a vague sense of superiority, 
was dimly conscious of the existence of many 
things in life which had nothing whatever to 
do with the admirable career of " Our Mr. 
Lionel Cutts," of the great firm of Merry- 
weather, Jones, and Co. And all the time 
there was the unexpressed, perhaps unrealized, 
hope of an adventure — a hope utterly vague, 
but sufficiently inspiring to lead him often 
to the silent places when the crowded streets, 
the hum of many voices, and the popular 
music called loudly to his kind. A light in 
the window of a silent house, the trim figure 
of a little maidservant suitably disguised, 
even the strains of a violin from the suddenly- 
opened door of some remote public-house, 
had all possessed their allurements for him. 
He had had many disappointments, some 
laughable, some almost humiliating, all 
commonplace. To-night was to be different ! 

It started, of course, with a girl. She 
passed him at the end of an empty street 
leading out from the Close, a slim-figured, 
graceful girl, with pale, impressive face and 
large dark eyes, which swept him over 
modestly yet not without some interest, as 
she paused at the edge of the kerbstone. It 
was a lonely spot — there was scarcely another 
soul in sight — and, notwithstanding her 
undoubtedly refined appearance, her eyes 
had not been immediately withdrawn from 
his eager gaze. 

Lionel Cutts took his courage in both hands. 
He removed the cigarette from his mouth 
and lifted his tweed cap. These things were 
done in the best possible air. 

" Can I be of any assistance, miss ? " he 

She looked at him, not angrily but with some 

" Assistance ? " she repeated, and from the 
first sound of her voice Lionel Cutts felt that 
his adventure had arrived. 

" Thought you'd lost your way or something 
of that sort," he continued. 

She actually smiled at him — a curious, 
apologetic little smile in which her eyes seemed 
to take part. 

" To tell you the truth," she confessed, 
moving a little nearer to him, " I have." 

" May I try and put you right ? " he begged. 
" I'm a stranger here myself, just strolling 

about for a bit, but I know a few of the 

" You don't live in the city, then ? " 

He shook his head. By this time, owing to 
his skilful manoeuvres, they were walking 
side by side. 

" Just passing through," he explained, 
airily. " I am taking a little motor tour 
through the eastern counties — looking for a 
shoot for next year, if I can find one." 

" How lovely ! " she murmured, glancing 
up at him shyly. 

" What about yourself ? " he inquired, 

" Oh, I'm staying down there for a night 
or two with my father," she replied, motion- 
ing back with her head towards the Close. 
" My father is a clergyman on the other side 
of the county, and we are staying — with the 

Lionel Cutts didn't know exactly what a 
dean was, but he felt that it was something 
exceedingly superior. There was no doubt 
now about the adventure. His tone, however, 
became a little more humble. 

" Would you honour me by taking a little 
walk ? " he asked. 

She seemed dubious* The shadow of her 
ecclesiastical relatives seemed to lean down 
over her. 

" I don't think I dare," she murmured. 
" You see, I don't know you. Which way ? " 

"First turn to the left, round here," he 
replied, promptly. " It leads right out into 
the country. Let's pretend we're old friends, 
been introduced by the Bishop, and all that 
sort of thing. My name's Montressor — 
Lionel Montressor." 

She sighed. " I can see that you are used 
to having your own way," she observed, 
resignedly. " Mine is Hardcastle — Nancy 
Hardcastle. I came out for a few minutes 
because all the rooms were so hot. Now 
you must tell me of your motor tour and 
about your shooting. How lovely to have a 
shoot of your own ! " 

He smiled in a superior sort of way. 

"I'd rather hear about your father's 
parish," he replied. 

They had a very pleasant walk and they 
exchanged many confidences of an interesting 
and personal nature. When they parted 
at the corner of the Close the young lady 
became almost solemn. 

" Mr. Montressor," she pleaded, earnestly, 
" I want you to promise me, upon your word 
of honour, that you will forget this evening — 
that, if we should ever meet again in society, 
you will treat me us a stranger. I have never 
in my life dene such n dreadful thing as this, 



but I won't regret it — if you will give me that 

He gave it, much impressed, and although 
she seemed at first terribly distressed by the 
condition which he imposed, she eventually 
paid — well away from the gas- 
lamp, Lionel Cutts walked 
bark to his hotel 
with his feet 
upon the 
air. He 
h i s 

Their next meeting was not in society. It 
took place at about five minutes past nine 
on the following morning, when Lionel Cutts 
was personally assisting in the unloading of 
his sample-cases and their disposal inside 
the premises of Messrs, Hyde Brothers, 
drapers and haberdashers. Miss Hardcastle 
was standing behind the counter upon which 
he had just deposited, with some effort, his 
heaviest case. He looked at her, breathless, 
his mouth a little open, his healthy colour 
deepening, the perspiration, not wholly born 
of his exertions, standing out upon his fore- 
head. As usual in such a situation, the 

She smiled at him very 

? " 


woman triumphed 

w Out early, aren't you, Mr. Montressor 
she remarked. C( Are you motoring 
to-day ? " 

lt 1 low's the dean ? ll he managed 

She leaned across the counter. 

'" Don't let's be sillies any longer/* she 

said, earnestly* "If you want to see 

Mr. Orton, the new buyer, he's just 

over there j through that door ; and 

Mr. Greatrcx, of Brown and Horris, is 

in the next department, waiting to 

^et hold of him, with four truckloads 

of samples. If you slip through that 

door you'll just get in first." 

Mr. Cutts, notwithstanding his 

" romantic disposition, was all for busi- 

^ ness. He was off like a shot, and he 

beat the enterprising representative of 

- Messrs. Brown and Horns by a short 

head. An hour later, on his way out 

after a most successful interview, he 

approached with some temerity the counter 

U-hind whu h Miss Hardcastle was standing. 

Will you please- 

he began. 



won't do you any 


whisky and soda and w r atched the finish of 
a game of pool in the billiard-room in high 
good humour. He had spent a thoroughly 
satisfactory evening. 

iL Same time and place to-night" she inter- 
rupted, glancing over her shouider ; M and 
n iy name is Nancy Grey. Don't let them 
see you talking to me. It won't do you any 

Lionel Cutts lifted his hat and left the 
place, somewhat cheered. He kept his 
appointment that night w r ith a certain 
amount of trepidation, but he found Miss 
(irey a most delightful young woman. 

" Idiotic, wasn't it ? " she laughed, as 
they shook hands. " But I can't help it. 
Being in business all day, a girl does sort of 
get fed up with commonplace things, and 
I'm confessing right away that I like to 
make-belkve. J was making-believe all last 

• --j J LI II l ki 1 I IUII H , 


•^EffiW^l^r tural as an >* 



H Same here/' he acknowledged, heartily. 
" I can't, keep off it. I don't care for the 
ordinary sort of amusements at all after my 
work's done* I like to wander off and make- 
believe, too." 

lt Now, isn't that queer ! " she exclaimed f 
stopping short upon the pavement for a 
moment, if I never met anyone else like it 
before. It's exactly what I do myself. 1 
can't keep from it," she asserted, impressively, 
" Last night I was pretending that I had 
been dining at the Palace and my car had 
broken down. I was looking for assistants 
when I met you, but I had to change things 
just a little because I suddenly remembered 
that I wasn't in evening dress." 

f( Seems to me we ought to hit it off 
together," he declared, confidently, u What 
shall it be to-night — a cinema or the theatre ? ' ' 

She shook her head disparagingly. 

11 That's just what ordinary people would 
do/' she objected. 

M Anything you like to suggest, 5 * he 
remarked, gallantly* 

She reflected for a moment* Then her 
face lit up. 

" I know what ! " she decided, sud- 
denly. " I'll take you where I went 
to this morning before breakfast* I saw 
something which has made me imagine 
things all day, I've made up nearly 
a dozen stories about it. You shall 
come, too, and have a try. We'll 
have to go by tram* Do vou mind ? " 

" Not I ! " he answered, " I don't 
care how far it is — the farther the 

They travelled out of the city on the 
top of an electric car, and during the 
whfife of the journey she never mentioned 
their destination. Arrived at the terminus, 
she led the way down what seemed to be a 
country lane in process of transition into an 
urban street. On either side were recently- 
built small villas of Garden City type, each 
standing in a little plot of garden. The 
pavement had only just been put down. 
The road itself was imperfectly made. The 
whole neighbourhood, in the gloom of the 
evening, at any rate, was new and uninspir- 
ing. Many of the houses were empty — 
some still unfinished. The atreet lamps wen 
weak and insufficient* Lionel Cutts stumbled 
once against a tub of mortar and a pile of 
bricks. He relieved himself by an ex- 
pression to which his companion remained 
chivalrously deaf. 

11 Vou don't live down here, do you ? " he 
->skcd her, doubtfully. 

" Not I," she replied ; " only father's a 
builder, and this last house belongs to him. 
I came down on my bike early this morning 
with a note, and — well, wait just a moment." 

They had reached the end of the street 
now — a street which terminated 
in the open fields — and she 
pushed open the gate of 
the house in front 
of which they 
had paused. 
They groped 
their way 

l( LION I ■!- 

up a little gravel path to the stuccoed front 
of the little villa. There was no light shining 
from any of the windows. The outline of 
the building only was dimly visible, rising out 




of a desert of immature garden. Be- 
yond was the untouched country, a 
dark, uneven chaos, with a few trees 
close at hand standing up like black 

11 Anyone living here ? " the 
young man whispered. 
She nodded, 
" A retired colonel in the 
Army. He is father's 
tenant. I came down 
with a note this morn- 
ing about some altera- 
tions, but no one 
Qj. r , answered the bell, 
so I strolled round 
and just glanced 
in at this win- 
do w — this 
side one 
here. Step 
\ on the 

border. Now, have you got some matches ? 
Don't say you haven 't, for goodness* sake ! 
I quite forget that it would be dark/* 

1 I've got plenty of matches all right/ * 
Lionel Cutts assured her^ drawing a box from 
his pocket, " Supposing anyone sees us 
hanging around here, though ? " 

11 That's all right/' she answered, briskly. 
" I left the note in the letter-box this morning, 
and I've come for an answer, just strike a 
match and look in at the window. I want 
you to see it just as I did." 

It was a dark night, but windless. The 
match } when once kindled ? burned steadily. 
The young man held it close to the window 
and peered into a plainly-furnished but com- 
fortable little dining-room. At first he could 
distinguish nothing except a white cloth upon 
the table, By degrees, however, he saw 
other things. The cloth was laid for a meal 
which had apparently been hastily aban- 
doned. An empty decanter lay upon its 
side, and across the tablecloth was a dark 
stream of red wine. A glass by the side of 
the vacant place was still half -filled. There 
was a barely-touched cutlet upon the plate, 
and a napkin thrown in a heap upon a vege- 
table dish. A chair lay on its side where the 
diner had been sitting. The cloth had been 
dragged a little askew, and^ staring at them 
with eyes like pin-pricks of fire and tail 
lifted straight into the air, was a tor- 
toiseshell cat. It was mewing loudly 
and scratching the floor with its paws. 
11 What do you make of that ? " 
the girl whispered. " It's just as 
it was this morning." 

''Someone's done a skidoo 
in a hurry/' Mr, Cutts ob- 
served, lighting another 
match. " I wonder," he 
added; his practical mind 
for the moment 
triumphing, "why the 
pffS cat hasn't eaten the 

cutlet ? " 

The cat's red 
tongue shot out 
as it moved 
slowly to- 
wards them. 

THK OIKL WHisPKKlLl*. l tX\ JV* 1 ^!"') 




It was at this precise moment that fear 
entered into the souls of both Lionel Cutts 
and Nancy Grey. It came from some 
hidden source and for some unexplained 
reason, but it seized a sure hold of them. 
The scene upon which the young man had 
glanced with the idlest curiosity became 
suddenly invested with a dim and creeping 
horror. There was something around them, 
something near which was terrifying. He 
struggled against it bravely, but his throat 
became dry and his knees began to shake. 
Then his companion spoke to him, and he 
knew that the change had come to her too. 
Her voice sounded faint and tremulous. 

" Looks odd, doesn't it ? " she faltered. 
" It was just like that this morning. I've 
been making-believe about it all day. One 
might fancy — almost anything." 

" Almost anything ! " he echoed, lighting 
another match and trying to believe that his 
fingers were trembling because of the cold. 
" Isn't there a servant or anyone in the 
house ? " 

" Got one coming to-morrow, he told 
father," she replied. " He seems rather 
proud of being able to do everything fcr 
himself just for a day or two — said he was 
an old campaigner. He must have gone 
away in a hurry. Don't let's stop any 

An immense relief seized upon the soul of 
Lionel Cutts at his companion's suggestion. 
Yet he remained for a moment motionless. 
Just inside the room the blazing eyes of the 
cat seemed to grow larger and larger. With 
arched back and wide-open mouth, she stood 
as close to the window as she could get, 
marking time with her paws and mewing 
more loudly than ever. Lionel Cutts forgot 
his surroundings. 

" Hang that cat ! " he muttered, more 
than ever conscious of the moisture upon his 

" Let's go ! " the girl begged, tugging at 
his arm and urging him to leave the uncanny 
spot. " We'll make up stories about this 
on the way home." 

But Lionel Cutts, although his knees shook, 
and although the thought of a rapid flight 
towards the lights and the jingle of the 
electric car was like a dream of happiness, 
knew quite well that the moment for it had 

" There may be — a real story," he an- 
swered. " That cat is crying for help. 
Let's look in the other downstair room." 

She caught him convulsively by the arm. 

" It's silly," she faltered, " but I don't 

Vol. xlviii.— 28. 

want to. I'm afraid ! I want to get away, 
back to the lights. I want to run as fast as 
I can ! " 

"So do I, like the devil!" he groaned. 
" But we can't do it. Come along." 

He led the way fearfully but doggedly. On 
the other side of the front door was another 
room, corresponding in size with the one into 
which they had been looking. They stole up 
to it on tip-toe. It, too, was uncurtained and 
blank. Cutts struck a match, held it down 
for a moment until the flame burned clearly, 
then up. Its light was sufficient. They 
saw in. The girl tried to shriek, but her voice 
broke piteously, and the sound which came 
was no more than a cracked and discordant 
whisper. As for her companion, a curious 
thing happened. The fear of a few seconds 
ago fell away from him. He found his brain 
working, his muscles tingling for action. 
How best to help — for help seemed sorely 
needed ! 0n his side near the middle of the 
room, bound hand and foot with cruel cords, 
lay an elderly gentleman. His face was 
ghastly white, the veins were standing out 
upon his forehead, there were specks of blood 
upon his lips. His eyes were protruding — 
their stare was almost like the stare of the 
dead. A few feet away from him a man was 
on his knees before a small safe. His arms 
were clasped on the top of his head, he was 
swaying backwards and forwards, muttering 
to himself — and he was as black as jet. 

" It's the elephant-rider from the circus ! " 
Miss Grey faltered. 

The young man's plan of campaign was 
already fixed. He had tried the window and 
found it fast. Suddenly he rained a hurri- 
cane of blows upon the panes with his ash 
stick. He found a place free of broken flass, 
placed his hand firmly upon it, and, with a 
skill acquired from practising over counters 
in his spare moments, he vaulted into the 
room of tragedy. 

" What the devil's going on here ? " he 
cried, as he struggled to recover his breath. 

There was no reply. The man who lay 
upon the floor made weak but ineffectual 
efforts to expel the dumr.ily-fashioned gag 
from his mouth. The elephant-rider had 
risen, without undue haste, to his feet. He 
came slowly across the room. He walked 
with a curious noir^lessness. The veneer 
of civilization acquired with his European 
clothes seemed to have fallen away from him. 
There was a wildness about his eyes, a threat 
in his very silence, alike terrifying. Lionel 
Cutts was miserably conscious of an immense 
inferiority of si&s and muscle. He gripped 



his ash stick firmly, but he felt like a pigmy 
defying a giant. 

" What is the meaning of this ? " he 
demanded once more^ his voice weakening. 

There was no answer. The elephant-rider 
leaned forward* Cutts struck at him fiercely, 
but, though the blow fell upon his head, the 
African never winced. With a sudden move- 
ment he seized Cutts in his arms. The two 
swayed backwards and forwards in an uneven 
struggle. Peering at them throrgh the dim 

the ground was trying to make her under- 
stand something- He was looking towards 
his pockets, She dropped on her knees by 
his side. When she stood up, for the first 
time in her life she held a little revolver. She 
looked at it and felt for the trigger, The 
colonel nodded eagerly. Once more she 
hastened across the room- Cutts had become 
limp now. The African held him in his arms 
— seemed about to dash him upon the floor. 
Her hand shook. There was a red fire dancing 


light, the girl, who had followed her escort 
into the room, began to scream. The African's 
long fingers had closed upon the young man's 
throat. Very slowly he commenced to 
strangle him, Cutts, almost from the first, 
was in desperate straits. He was In the hands 
of a man of twice his physical strength, a man, 
too, who seemed fired with a homicidal fury. 
He felt the cruel fingers burning at his throat, 
the hideous choking, the beginning of the black 
darkness. The girl rushed towards them. 
Suddenly she paused. The bound man upon 

before her eves. She dared not aim. She 
pressed the revolver suddenly against the 
body of the African and pulled the trigger 
desperately— once, twice, three times. Then 
she ran away, shrieking and wringing her 
hands. The room was full of smoke, hideous 
with the cries of the wounded man, Cutts 
sat on the floor, leaning against the wall, 
slowly recovering his breath. His face was 
black and his eyes staring, 
" My God I " he sobbed. " My God ! " 
It wasi^^^^t^^^er courage, 




too, arrived at this hour of trial in the midst 
of their adventure. She first of all lit a 
candle, and then, with a knife, which she 
fetched from the dining-room, she cut the 
cords from the bound man, held wine to his 
lips, and passed it on to Lionel Cutts. All 
the time the elephant - rider lay groaning 
upon the floor, his breathing becoming 
fainter and fainter. He had rolled at first 
from side to side. Now he was almost 
still. The girl scarcely once glanced in his 

" Do you think I have killed him ? " she 

" Thundering good job if you have ! " the 
colonel exclaimed. " Thank Heaven for 
your pluck, little girl ! The brute ! He's 
kept me here for nearly twenty-four hours, 
waiting for me to give him the word to unlock 
that safe." 

"What is it? Jewels?" Lionel Cutts 
asked, as he staggered to his feet. 

The colonel drew a long breath. Then he 
groped his way across the room and. with 
shaking fingers, adjusted the lock and opened 
the door of the safe. Upon the iron shelf 
was a small black image, and around its neck, 
banging from a thread of gold wire, a single 

" I brought it back from a temple in Central 
Africa," he explained. " They told me there'd 
be trouble, but I never dreamed they'd reach 
me here." 

They all looked at the image, which seemed 
to be fashioned of some jet-black metal. The 
body was the body of a woman, the face 
hideous, yet fascinating. 

"Some day I'll tell you the story," the 
colonel promised. " Just at present I've 
ha# enough of the thing." 

IJe closed up the safe. 

" I think," Cutts remarked, picking up his 
hat, " that we'll be going." 

The colonel nodded. 

" Can't talk to you to-night," he groaned. 
" Call at the police-station, will you, and tell 
them about this carcass. I'm going to lie 

They stole out of the house. They held 
one another tightly all the way down the 
half-lit road. The horror of the night seemed 

to have afflicted them with a sort of mental 
paralysis. They scarcely spoke. 

" Where is the police-station ? " he asked, 

" I'll stop the tram," she faltered. 

They came out into the lights. He drew a 
great breath of relief. The rattle of an 
electric car sounded like music. 

"We don't need to make-believe — about 
to-night ! " be muttered. 

A month later, on the occasion of Lionel 
Cutts's next journey to Norwich, Miss Nancy 
Grey and he dined with Colonel Ransome at 
the Grand Hotel. They had all become 
normal again, but the horror of that night 
had left behind it a certain effect. It was a 
very pleasant dinner, and the colonel talked 
to them for some time of his wanderings in 
Africa and his many remarkable adventures 
there. Finally, towards the close of the 
evening, he touched upon the one subject 
which, up till then, they had managed to 

" I've presented that idol to the British 
Museum," he said, " and I've sold the pearl. 
Deuced valuable it was, too ! The first 
jeweller I showed it to gave me a thousand 
pounds for it. And now, you two young 
people," he went on, " I'd like to tell you 
both what I am going to do with that 
thousand pounds." 

Miss Grey, who was really an exceedingly 
practical young woman, nodded with an air 
of keen interest. 

"I've invested it for the present," the 
colonel continued, " and it's going to be 
handed over as a dowry to the first young 
lady of my acquaintance of whose matri- 
monial plans I approve. Don't happen to 
know of anyone, do you, Miss Nancy ? " 

She sat, for a moment, quite still. There 
was a shade of pink in her cheeks. Mr. 
Lionel Cutts coughed. 

" We thought some time next autumn, sir," 
he remarked. " I am to have a small share 
in the business then." 

" Congratulate you both ! " the colonel 
declared, heartily. " It's just the answer I 
was hoping for. The money's ready any 


Original from 



f ^ 

Throw out the twelve court cards from an ordinary 
pack. Now, with nine of the remainder (different 
suits are of no consequence), form the annexed magic 

square, in which 

the pips add up 
to fifteen in eight 
different ways. 
The puzzle is, 
with the remain- 
ing cards (without 
disturbing this 
arrangement), to 
form three more 
such magic 
squares, so that 
each of the four 
shall add up to a 
different sum in 
the required direc- 
tions. There will, 
of course, be four 
cards in the re- 
These four may 
Remember that 




^ i 

duced pack that will not be used, 

be any that you choose to discard. 

the four squares must all sum differently 

206.— THE NEW GUN. 
We all know that the Swiss navy is unconquerable 
and indestructible. The Government of Switzerland 
was approached by an inventor who undertook that 
a new gun which he had manufactured, when once 
loaded, would fire fifteen shots at the rate of a shot 
a minute. A series of tests was made, and the gun 
certainly fired fifteen shots in a quarter of an hour. 
The Government refused to buy the gun. Why ? 

.- r ... 



207.— A NEW 


It often happens 
that the easiest dis- 
section puzzles are the 
prettiest. Here is a 
new one that ought to 
give the reader very 
little trouble. Cut the 
figure into five pieces 
that will fit together 
and form a square. 

I SET out the other day to ride in a motor-car from 
Acrefield to Butter ford, but by mistake I took the road 
going vitt Cheesebury, which is nearer Acrefield than 
Butterford, and is twelve miles to the left of the direct 
road I should have travelled. After arriving at 
Butterford I found that I had gone thirty-five miles. 
What are the three distances between these villages, 
each being a whole number of miles ? The three 
roads are quite straight. 


In each of the following sentences a word is con- 
cealed. Read them in the order given, and they will 
form a very familiar proverb : — 

1. A naughty cat ran away. 2. They found a 
closely written roll in gathering up the rubbish. 
3. It is the best one that I have ever seen. 4. The 

rug at her stairway is not a valuable one. 5, He is 
an old acquaintance of mine. 6. Amos soon saw 
through the stratagem. 

Solutions. to Last Month's Puzzles. 

200.— THE 



Discard the last 
tile in each of the 
four horizontal 
rows. Then the 
remaining sixteen 
may be arranged 
as shown in the 
illustration in 
accordance with 
the conditions. 


3" 3^ 

In the first diagram we have the vessel. The drop 
of "honey is represented by H, on the inside ; the fly 
by F, on the outside. The fly clearly has to go over 
the edge to the other side. Now, imagine we are 
dealing with a cylinder of cardboard. If we cut it we 
can lay it out flat, as in the second diagram. If we 
then extend the line of the side one inch to B, the line 
FB will cut the edge at A, which will be the point at 
which the fly must go over. The shortest distance is 
thus the hypotenuse of a right-angled triangle, whose 
height is 4 and base 3. This we know is 5, so that the 
fly has to go exactly five inches. 


:\X .-'/: 
: •• x / : 

! Jt X : 

•<&'. V .Ht 
.•■*■«*•" r*. 

qfei <^. — ....ig. .. . T.-iA 

The illustration shows the graceful manner of 
planting the trees so as to get nine rows with four trees 

in every row. 

The buried words are as follows : Utah, Nelson, 
Melba, Malta, Meredith, Wagner, Andover, Rubens, 






Illustrated by Grakam Simmons. 

OU must imagine fhe interest 
aroused in his club when 
Alexander Cuthbertson an- 
no u n c e d that he was going 
into the prize-ring that night 
for an exhibition three rounds. 
As you know, there is some 
talk about prize-fighting now. Ladies are 
making it popular. 

Cuthbertson, tall enough to be in any 
regiment of the Guards, had had lessons from 
one of the professionals — invited to hit his 
man whenever or however he could, and 
sometimes imagining that he had done it. 

" Apart from the exercise," he said, " it's a 
good thing. You never know when you're 
going to come in for a scrap in the street.' ' 

Men in the club who had never seen a 
prize-fight — who, moreover, never wished to 
see one — looked up to him in more senses 
than one as a fellow with some grit in him. 

" Of course, I've got a tremendous reach," 
said he. " So the pro. tells me. As near as 
a toucher I knocked him out the other day. 
Well, he said to me, ' You mustn't hit like 
that, sir — not when we're just sparring/ " 

Cuthbertson told these little stories about 
his boxing lessons. Ladies, he knew, listened 
to them open-mouthed. He did not explain 
that the blow he had delivered on that occa- 
sion had not landed. It struck the air, and 
with such force that the remark already re- 
ferred to had fallen from the professional as a 
matter of advice. 

Nobody thought of asking him what the 
professional was doing while Cuthbertson was 
hitting him with these tremendous blows. 
Indeed, Cuthbertson himself forgot to realize 
that he was hitting something which only 
retaliated with defence. 

" How should I do," he asked his instructor 
one day, " in a proper contest, ten rounds in 
the ring, with two-ounce gloves ?^f\ 1 

The professional was thinking of the fees 
for his lessons when he replied that he 
expected Cuthbertson would wipe the floor 
with some men. 

" Of course, I've got a tremendous reach," 
said Cuthbertson, and for answer the profes- 
sional held out his arm, measuring it against 
that of his pupil. The comparison was 
ludicrous. Cuthbertson could give him five 

" That'ud stand me in good stead, you 
know," said he. 

The instructor looked at the delicate arm, 
the fair skin, and the tender muscles. 

" It ought to," said he. 

" I think I shall have a go some day," said 
Cuthbertson. " I don't want to boast, of 
course, but if I were any good I wouldn't mirid 
going in for the heavy-weight championship. 
Rather a fine thing, you know, for a gentleman 
amateur to win that. That'ud buck up the 
spirit of boxing in this country. We're getting 
a chicken-hearted lot." 

" Why not try an exhibition three rounds 
first," suggested his instructor — " just three 
two-minute rounds ? They'd be very glad to 
have you in one of those rings down the other 
side of the river." 

This was the result of that suggestion. An 
exhibition bout of three rounds, two minutes 
each round, was fixed up with the manager of 
one of the boxing rings on the Surrey side. 
Cuthbertson told his valet about it that 
morning while he was being dressed. 

" Who's the man you're fighting with, sir ? " 

" Oh, he was the heavy-weight champion of 
Sydney, in Australia. He hasn't been fighting 
for some years, but I understand he may go 
back into the ring again. He's a hefty chap, 
I expect. Well, a champion heavy-weight — " 

At lunch in the club he ate a chop — no more. 

" Better just get in a bit of training," said 
he. " I haven't smoked a cigarette to-day." 



" Going to knock your man out ? " someone 
asked him. 

" Not in an exhibition round/' said Cuth- 
bertson. " It's not a real fight, you know. 
But the manager asked mo to be careful. 
The pro. probably told him, I should think, 
that I'd got a punch up my sleeve." 

" Will there be any blood ? " asked a 
youthful member. 

" You can never tell," said Cuthbertson. 

He gave a dinner to a lady friend of his and 
took her down with him to the ring. At dinner 
he ate but little, though he drank champagne 
and had two liqueurs. 

" Isn't that bad for you ? " she asked. 

" Oh, no — it isn't as if it were ten rounds. 
Anyone can last out three ; they don't really 
have to train for it." 

He lit a cigar and they went down together 
in a taxi. She was very nervous, she said. 
Indeed, she had never seen a fight in her life. 
But he set her mind at ease. 

" I don't think I shall have much difficulty 
with the man I'm going to fight," he told her. 
" In any case, it's only an exhibition bout. 
We sha'n't hurt each other." 

But, in the heart of him, Cuthbertson had 
determined to put his man out with one of 
those terrific left punches with which he had 
so often narrowly missed the professional. 
He wanted to surprise her. He wanted to 
surprise them all. 

In the dressing-rooms was that pungent 
human scent as the men came in and out from 
their fights. He thought with some appre- 
ciation of the scented bath which he would 
have as soon as he got home. When the 
manager came in to see if he was ready, he 
was sitting in a rather elaborate dressing- 
gown, turning the ends of his moustache and 
waiting with pleasurable expectation for his 
turn to come. 

" Feeling fit, sir ? " asked the manager. 

" Oh— fit as a flea," said he. " You know, 
this sort of thing does one a lot of good. 
Makes you appreciate the comforts of your 
own home." 

" What sort of thing ? " the manager 

" Well — these dressing-rooms." 

" What's the matter with 'em ? " 

11 They're not supposed to be palaces, of 
course," Cuthbertson replied, with tact ; and 
without tact, he added, " a bit niffy too, ain't 
they ? " 

This was not his usual method of speech. 
He was doing as the Romans do in Rome. 

" Niffy ? " said the manager. " There's 
nothing to object to in that." 

" Of course — of course — nothing," said 
Cuthbertson, and thought again of his 
lavender bath salts at home. 

" Well, if you're ready now, we may as 
well begin," said the manager. 

Cuthbertson followed him into the glare of 
lights. He allowed his eye just to wander in 
the direction of his lady friend, and, full of 
confidence, not that he had seen her, he smiled. 
Then he climbed up into the ring, realizing 
that his opponent was already in his corner. 

Taking the opposite corner, he glanced 
across at his man, sizing him up and calculat- 
ing that he must be at least fifteen years his 
senior. " He'll feel those fifteen years after 
the first round," he thought. 

Confidence was still easy and prominent in 
his mind. He leant back in his seat, lolling 
his arms over the ropes as his seconds flapped 
the towels about his head. As he had 
climbed up into the ring, there had been a 
murmur of " Ohs ! " through the building at 
the size of man that he was. He thought of 
his reach and knew that it was a foregone 
conclusion. He had never felt so confident 
of anything in his life. 

" 'Ave a drop of water on your face, sir ? " 
whispered one of the seconds to him, holding 
up a dirty sponge, on which Cuthbertson 
thought he saw some signs of blood from the 
previous contest. 

" It's not clean water — is it ? " he asked. 

" Well, sir — only two or three fights before 
this one." 

" No — I don't want any," said Cuthbertson. 

The manager's assistant came up at this 
moment and asked him whether he wished 
his own name to be called out. 

" Oh, no, I don't think so," said he. 
" That would rather look like side." 

" What shall I say, then, sir — Jones of 
Lambeth ? " 

" Yes — Jones — but not Lambeth. Say — 

The assistant strode into the middle of the 

" An exhibition bout," he cried, " of three 
rounds — two minutes each round. On my 
right, Knock-out Stitcher of Sydney, Aus- 
tralia; on my left, Harry Jones of Ken- 

Cuthbertson concealed a smile with his 
glove, hiding it so that everyone could see his 
amusement. He — Cuthbertson — to hear him- 
self called " Harry Jones of Kensington"! 
It was really rather amusing. Of course, 
everyone must know. But why did the other 
man call himself " Knock-out Stitcher " ? 

The gong went. He jumped to his feet 







with all his confidence beaming in his face* 
He forgot, however, the formality of shaking 
hands— indeed, was just about to square up, 
when he saw the gloves of the Knock-out 
Stitcher extended to him. He lowered his 
own to do the proper thing, when the Austra- 
lian, thinking there were to be no such for- 
malities and expecting a blow on the body., hit 
his man a sharp punch on the mouth. Cuth- 
bertson's lips were cut against his teeth ; he 

The fight had 

felt the blood in his mouth, 

From that moment the whole house rose 
to a shout of laughter, Very distantly it 
sounded in Cuthbertson's ears. The Aus* 
tralian had hit him, he had drawn blood ; 
then he should feel the weight of Cuthbertson's 
great punch, and at once, without delay. 

Disregarding all defence — for until that 
moment he hud never been hit before — he 




rushed in with that tremendous upper-cut he 
had often practised in his bath-room at home. 
Undoubtedly it would have stretched his 
man upon the boards, unconscious for a week , 
if it had landed, but before he reached the 
Australian something had fallen from some- 
where with a sickening weight upon his 

mouth again. His great blow missed by a 
yard as he s triggered back, dazed and bewil- 
dered to think that he had been hit, 

" I must guard myself a bit better/' he 
thought, tb The pro, said, ' Always keep cool/ 
I'm not cool — I'm excited;" He squared up 
aeain, muttering to himself, " Keep cool. 





keep cooL" But before he could say it a 

third time, so as to really plant it in his 

mind, he felt as though a horse had kicked 

him between the eyes. And then the bell 


This was greeted with shouts of laughter 

from the crowd, for scarcely half a minute 
Vol xMii-o* 

had gone. The time-keeper had stepped in 
to save him. 

But Cuthbertson knew nothing about that. 

"Well, I've lasted through that round," 
said he* (< Now ? if I can only upper-cut him*" 

But when the seconds were called out of 
the rinff and the matter had to be faced again. 




he had lost a greater part of that confidence. 
The fact was, he was being made aware of 
someone else in the ring besides himself, and 
this was no other than Knock-out Stitcher 
of Sydney, Australia. Still, he must upper- 
cut him. He was an ugly-looking devil. It 
would be quite a good thing to make a mess 
of him. He could imagine how the sym- 
pathies of his lady friend in the balcony — 
even supposing she were no friend of his — 
would be all against this ugly devil with his 
heavy, pendulous jaw. 

They were both sparring for an opening, 
and Cuthbertson's old confidence was return- 
ing. He was going to keep cool until he got 
his chance. There was no fear of this fellow 
hitting- him again — if he kept cool. In a 
moment when there seemed no hint of 
trouble, he cast his eye up into the balcony to 
see how plainly his friend's sympathies would 
be written in her face. He had seen profes- 
sionals do this in the ring — look at a friend 
in the audience and smile. 

It was rather difficult to find her. Indeed, 
he picked out the wrong girl, and was just 
about to smile at her when he felt the smile 
crushed against his teeth at the same moment 
that he fell heavily to the floor. 

Again the bell went. Again that shout of 
laughter from all sides. This was a shorter 
round than the first. It seemed long ^nough, 
however, to Cuthbertson. He regarded the 
prospect of the third with no little discomfort 
of mind. Two rounds had gone by and he 
had not brought off his upper-cut. He was 
beginning to wonder if he ever would, for his 
breath was coming in gasps and life was not 
such a glorious thing as it had been five 
minutes ago. He spat some blood into the 
basin the seconds held out for him, and 
wondered, when he saw it, if he was badly 
hurt. What a pity it was not two rounds ! 
It would have been over by now. It was this 
third round his mind revolted at. Now, if 
they had chosen a lighter man for him, he 
would have stood a much better chance. 

" Lucky the gong went when it did," he 
said to one of his seconds. " I might have 
been counted out." 

" You might, sir," said the second, " but 
you're tough enough for 'im yet." 

" What am I doing that's wrong ? " asked 
Cuthbertson, with some simplicity. 

" Well, you're not hitting 'im, sir." 

" Yes — I thought that was what it was/' 

said Cuthbertson. " I must upper-cut him," 
and, as the gong went for the last round, he 
strode once more from his corner determined 
to do it then. 

He upper-cut right enough — great lunging 
blows, at every one of which the people cried 
out, " Oh ! Ah ! " He knew they would 
think something of them. So would the 
Knock-out Stitcher as soon as ever one of 
them landed. But a sickening feeling of 
cautious apprehension in the pit of his 
stomach kept him from going too near his 
man. Accordingly those tremendous blows 
were all of them a good yard short. And 
they were tiring work. His breath was 

But suddenly it seemed he saw his chance. 
The Stitcher was wiping his nose with the 
back of his glove — a foolish thing to do when 
there were such blows as his about. Cuth- 
bertson seized that chance. He shut his 
eyes, lowered his head, and rushed. 

Once or twice when he had got excited he 
had done this with the professional. Then 
he had been only pushed away, because the 
pro. was a first-class man and knew how to 
manage him. But this chap was not first- 
class. He knew it was his chance, and it was 
a mighty rush. Then something bewildering 
happened. He had got his eyes shut so that 
he could not see how it occurred, but some- 
thing that seemed to rise out of the floor 
below him met his face and flung him erect. 
He opened his eyes to see what had happened, 
and the Stitcher's left flung out like a hammer 
on his nose. 

He fell again, wondering where he was. 
Should he get up ? What was the good ? 
He could have got up, but it was better where 
he was. This was the last round ; if he did 
not get up there would be no more of this. 
His little friend in the balcony would be feeling 
greater sympathy for him if he did not rise. 
He could even imagine tears in her eyes. 

He chose wisdom. He lay where he was. 

They helped him back to his dressing-room, 
and there gave him a note from his little 

" I can't bear it," she had written. " I've 
seen two fights and I daren't look at any 
more. You are so strong I know you'll hurt 
the other man. I've gone home." 

" Well, I might have hurt him," said 
Cuthbertson to himself. " I might have — if 
I'd upper-cut him," 

by Google 

Original from 






The Valley of Fear" 






JUL*** tfurJ*.„ m wf- — 7 j\*u***f 

(L+fJ ***** ***«yotf*/-0E Mt^( Mf£w^Ar 

^ * i n iry * ■ i * * *** m < i l*3 i i J i A ui 4# , 


iwtev a^a i' fiuk- 


unny as 

They C 


ey v^an. 

The following section is the first of a series founded upon an entirely new idea 
— a different well-known humorous artist assuming the post of editor every month 
and doing his best to make his particular instalment "as funny as he can." 

Arrangements have already been made with the following artists: — 

/ / M. 


\i will be interesting to hear from our readers at the end of a few months which 
editor they consider has been most successful in making them laugh. 

JV^R, ALFRED LEETE, with whose work as an artist readers of 'The Strand Magazine" are welt 
acquainted, is responsible for the present number. Mr. Leeie has paid a graceful compliment to the 
editors of contemporary periodicals, whose ranks he has thus momentarily joined, by devoting the space 
placed at his disposal to caricaturing some of thtir most popular J features." 





Miss Gismonda Dc La Vere Haigh^De La Vere, 
who has been scoring such a great success in the back 
row of the chorus in the new rtvut at the Insipidity 
Theatre, No Smoking in the Lift, has been ordered! 
a complete rest by her physicians, Interviewed by our 
representative at her Park Lane residence, the charming 
lady confirmed the news, adding chat the great mental 
and physical exhaustion induced by shouting " Hullo, 
boys, here we are ] ' ' and eating cotton-wool ices 
nightly had brought about a complete nervous break- 
down. "Give your dear readers my be si Jove, please, 
she said, "and tell them that I hope soon to be back at 
work. Do J love my work? Why, my work is my 
greatest joy, and t am never happier than when appear^ 
ing before the large' hearted British public, to whom I 
owe so much, I Jive entirely for my art H and I quire 
agree with that very clever person who said something 
■ — I cannot remember what — about art for art** sake, 
Yes, I hope to marry into the peerage before very long. 
Would you care to accept these thirty-seven picture - 
postcards of me, not necessarily for publication, but 
as a guarantee of good faith?" During her absence 
the pan of Dotty Do! it tie, which she has made so 
peculiarly her own, will be played by Miss Gwladwys 
Featherstone - Mount joy, whom our readers will no 
doubt remember as the talented young soubrette who 
delivered the line " No, thanks," so naively in the 
present rm#A predecessor. 

Mr, Louisville N. Barker's next Shakespearean pro- 
duction, we understand, is to be a revival of King 
Henry VL t and in order that the three parts may be 
presented in continuity upon the same evening the 
whole of the actors, dressers, scene -shifters, property 
masters, etc., are taking a course of long-distance 
training under the aegis of the Surrey Walking Club. 

A benefit matinie will be given next week at the 
Penumbra Theatre of Varieties on behalf of that 
veteran actor, Mr, Philip Flat foot, who, after achieving 
extraordinary success as the hind legs of the dromedary 
in Josephine and Her Sisters, "noises heard off" 
in the Pud diet on Pageant, and a prawn in a recent 
provincial pantomime, has at length fallen upon bad 
days A most attractive programme has been arranged, 

in which it is hoped that all the celebrated actors and 
actresses who have promised faithfully to appear will 
make it convenient to keep their promises faithfully. 
Engagements permitting. Sir Albert Trebohm has kindly 
consented to recite " Paradise Lost"; Mr. Tate R. 
Tate will present, engagements permitting, his new 
sketch, Winkling ; Sir Alexander George (meetings of 
the L, C h C d permitting) and company will appear in the 
second entr'acte of the sartorial comedy , An Ideal 
Wristband ; while Mme. Clarette Cuppe has announced 
her intention of singing, engagements permitting. The 
famous corps de ballet of the Penumbra will positively 
appear in any event, as they have been told they have 

£°<to. _ 

The Tiny Theatre wilt shortly be reopened with a 
new farci ^comedy, Lo*u t by Mr, J. K> Jesterton. 
The play is now being actively rehearsed under the 
supervision of the author, for which purpose the stage 
has been enlarged and strengthened. On and after the 
opening night it will be preceded by a new one * act 
play by Mr George Bernshaw, entitled Gilanttne, 
described as "a cursory study in expletives." in which 
the characters are a bargee and an old horse -bus driver. 

That exceedingly fine play. Toast $ f by the rising 
young Danish dramatist, lb Henriksen. has now cele- 
brated its second performance, which event was made 
the occasion for a souvenir night. Unfortunately, only 
one member of the audience received the souvenir — a 
handsome portfolio containing portraits of the lessee, 
stage manager, business manage r r and box-office keeper 
— as the other left before the distribution at the end of 
the first act. We understand that the Advanced Drama 
Society, under whose auspices the pJay is being 
presented, are contemplating a revival of East Lynn* t 
when a successor shall be needed. 

Mr. C + Moore Rix and Miss Formaline Terrace are 
shortly to give a "flying " matinee at Cork of their 
successful play, Carraway Scvnes y returning the same 
day in time for the regular evening performance at the 
Lycopodium, For the sake of the exercise Mr. Rix 
has decided to walk both ways, but the remainder of 
his company will ltulcI l>> the new magneto- repulsion 




BOOFLES — Thank you, dear, for the pretty muffin 
you made for me, I am using it at present as a pen- 
wij^er, but when it " sets " a little firmer I shall employ 
it as a paper-weight- With regard to your question, 
u What can be done with old linseed poultices f n I am 
afraid I cannot help you. Have you tried offering them 
to the charwoman ? So sorry your savoury did not 
prove a success, but if you mistake ammoniatcd quinine 
for tomato catsup what ran you expect ? Yes, I like 
your nofn-de-piumt* 

Minerva wishes to crochet an elastic 
stocking for her fianci, who is troubled 
with a fatted caif, and wants to know 
if I can recommend her a suitable 
pattern. She might try this : 4 chain, 
3 treble, 1 contralto j then slip one 
and repeat. Proceed with 2 l.b.w. t 
1 i.o.u^ 3 r>s<v.p. until stocking is the 
required size. 

Double - Six. ^ — T am distressed 
about your freckles, but try rod 
take heart from the fact that nearly all of the world's 
most famous women have been freckled, though I 
cannot recall the name of one for the moment. 
Freckles cannot be cured > but they can be burnt off with 
a TL'l-litjt knitting-needle, leaving scars which can in 
turn be removed, but I don f t know how. 

VlYELLA. — You are quite wrong, Pushkin was a 
Russian poet, not an instrument for inserting ribbon 
into lingerie. 

Eve wants to know how she can best spend her small 
dress allowance. 1 have given the most careful con- 
sideration to your question, Eve, and I unhesitatingly 
recommend you to spend it on clothes* Am so glad 
you find my notes helpful. 

Impatient. — I never answer telegrams written on 
both sides of the paper. 

Curly-Locks is in a difficulty* She had the mis- 
fortune to lose all her hair in a bathing accident last 
summer, since when she has been using a much- 
ad vert lied hair- restorer. New hair is growing* but 
it is coining in patches of black and white. Beggars, 
ik-ar, cannot afford to be choosers. Surely it is worse 
to be quite bald than piebald ! 

Careful WtFE has saved up all the holes in her 
gloves and stockings, and now, having a considerable 
number, wants to know how she can use them. Only 
two methods occur to me at the moment : you might 
knit them together to form a hammock, or send them 
to a (I Tuyere cheese factory. Many thanks for the 
group -photo of your children. Js the one on the left p 
leaning against what looks like a piece of the Giant's 
Causeway, quite right in his head ? 

Safphira says she has been a reader of this charming 
paper for fourteen years, and would be much obliged 
if I will lend her threepence. As this paper has only 
been in existence two years, SafpHira, I can only call 
you a bare -faced toyer with the truth, I am, however, 
sending you threepence by registered letter, less 
postage and registration fee. 

Disillusioned writes : "lam troubled about my 
engagement, I have just discovered that one of 
Harolds arms is :. >il ont. Can I break it off?** 







U*S* Ambassador Unbuttons His Face, Throws His Hooks 
Into "Prohibition/' And Gives the Grape the Glad Hand. 





Dry " Goods Market Demoralized. 

A despatch from London (Eng.) declares that Dr. Page, the United States 
Ambassador to the Court of St* James, at a puhlic dinner last night 
marfe a speech into which he introduced a quotation from the Eastern 
poet, Omar Khayyam, praising the juice of the grape. 

—Laugkin* Ntws Agrncy* 

- j- f tt-=t , I ~> -— ©pra+fwr^rafn 




A record number of entries has been 
secured for the All- England Battledore 
and Shuttlecock Tournaments to be held 
at Wimbledon next month, every player 
of note having signified his intention 
of competing* I shall be surprised if 
Mr. Reekes Macgillycuddy, the young 
American player, does not once again 
contest the Finals for the Gentlemen's 
Singles with the present champion, Mr, 
Wildfire— the former having now per- 
fected himself in a new screw-back 
service which causes the shuttlecock to 
return to the server after the manner of a 
well-trained boomerang. 

A rolling stone is worth two at a push, 
says the proverb, and therefore 1 trust 
that the difficulties attending the proposed 
marble - match of 18,000 up between 
Stevens and Grayson may soon be 
smooihed away, Grayson, it appears, 
has stipulated that glass alleys shall be 
used, while Stevens refuses to play unless 
the Elgin marbles are employed. Efforts 
are being made, however, to induce both 
players to adopt the benzoline marble, 
and all lovers of the great game will join 
with me in hoping that this will prove to 
be the solution of the difficulty, 

1 regret to learn that Mr. Jolly Soul's 
horse, " Butler's Baton/' twice winner of 
Doggett's Coat and Badge, is suffering 
from cracked knuckles, and will not run, 
as expected, in the Waterloo Cup at the 
Oval next week. 

Articles have n-"w been signed by 
"Wal" Woffler, m- holder of the 
Lonsdale Bantam-weight Chamoionship 
Braces, and " Gus" Guzzler, the coloured 
Overweight Champion, to eat hand' boiled 
eggs for a stake of sixpence a si _e. an^ a 

silk purse made out of a sow's ear, 
offered by the Feathered World. The 

White Hope/' whose most recent 
achievement was the administering of the 
"blow-out" at the thirty-first egg to the 
hitherto-undefeated "Chick" Chewer, is 
at present in training at Egham, and 
experts who have seen him at work on 
the swallowing -ball, and observed his 
method of treating home-made dough- 
nuts, predict an easy victory for him — 
notwithstanding that his opponent has an 
advantage of three inches in ihe size of 
his mouth, besides a very much larger 
cubic capacity, The match is expected 
to take place at the Eggcentric Club, and 
Colonel Newnham-Davis has consented 
to act as referee. In proof of the great 
interest this match has aroused I am 
pleased to be able to announce that all 
the eggs required for the contest will be 
the gift of Mr Macready MacPhelps, who 
has lately been tounng the provinces in 

Arrangements have now been com- 
pleted for the three Test Rounders matches 
between England and Australia* The 
first will be played in Oxford Circus, the 
second in the Rotunda of the Bank of 
England, and the third in the Albert Hall. 
Each of these matches will be specialty 
reported for this journal by well-known 
literary men, and in successive numbers 
will appear descriptions from the pens of 
Dr. Robert Bridges (which will be in 
verse of the rondeau form), Mr, G. K. 
Chesterton, and Mr. Bernard Shaw. The 
latter gentleman s version will be specially 
Bowdlerized, before publication, by an 
eminent clergyman. 





Sv Alfred L**t*. 

Original from 





ITTLE MOOK was the son of 
a poor citizen of Bussorah, 
His real name was Mookrah, 
but everyone called him Little 
Hook, because he was such 
a tiny little fellow, who had 
never grown any taller since 
he was seven years old, The only big thing 
about Mo ok was his head ; it was bigger 
than the head of a grown-up man, and the 
effect of this enormous ran non-ball on such 
a Irail little body was irresistibly comical. 
His father was so ashamed of Mook's appear- 
ance that he never allowed him out of the 
house, Mook was fourteen years old when 
his father died, burdened with debts, leaving 
his son to the mercy of his realtives. 

To every \nw nf reLitivi.- Monk's 


Retold from the German by 

W. J. L. KIEHL. 

Illustrated by 
H. R. Millar. 

father owed a sum of money, so none of them 
felt particularly kindly disposed towards 
Mook. They sold the house and all that was 
in it, and told the little fellow he had better 
go out into the world and seek his fortune. 
Now, Mook knew so little of the world that 
he was not a whit afraid of being sent out to 
shift for himself j he fancied it would be 
quite easy to make his fortune. The only 
things that troubled him were his clothes, 
which were quite worn out, so he begged very 
hard to be allowed to have his father's old 
work-a-day tilings, also his turban and his 
scimitar. The relatives grudgingly consented , 
but felt themselves amply rewarded for their 
charity by the hearty laugh they had when 
they saw Mook in his new outfit, all tucked 
around his little body. The big turban 




made his head seem even bigger than before, 
and the long scimitar stuck in the broad 
girdle trailed behind him on the ground. 
Most ridiculous of all were his tiny feet in his 
father's enormous slippers, that caused him 
to trip and fall every few paces. But Mook 
did not know he was ridiculous ; he was 
proud of his new finery, thanked his relations 
for their goodness to him, and set out full of 
hope to seek his fortune. 

He did not know where to go, but that did 
not matter ; a fortune was waiting for him 
somewhere, and he would be sure to reach it. 
So he stepped out bravely into the Unknown. 
It had been early morning when he left Bus- 
sorah. At noon the unaccustomed exercise 
had tired the little fellow, so he sat down to 
rest under a palm tree. A short nap restored 
him and gave him back his courage. On he 
went again, and when he saw the minarets 
of a large city loom through the hazy distance 
all his hope returned, and he felt sure that 
someone in that large town would say to 
him, " Come, poor little Mook, you must be 
hungry, so I will give you a good supper." 
But when at last the town was reached and 
he had passed through many of its streets 
without a friendly door opening to him his 
heart sank once more. At that very moment, 
however, the upper window of a house was 
thrown open and an old woman appeared. 
In a sing-song voice she chanted :— 

Come, come at my call ; 

There's dinner for all. 

Come in to my treat 

Of nice bread and meat 

You little ones all, 

Come, come at my call ! 

" Ah ! " thought Mook, " this sounds 
good ! I am a little one, so I suppose I am 
expected ! " 

He saw many cats and a few dogs running 
towards the old woman's house, and as he 
came up two pretty kittens were just enter- 
ing. " These kitties seem to know the way," 
thought Mook, " so I will just follow them." 

Through the courtyard and up the dark 
stairway the kittens went, and Mook followed 
them into a large room where the old woman 
he had seen at the window stood ready to 
receive her guests. 

" Why ! " she cried, when she saw Mook, 
" what on earth have you come f or ? " 

" Please, madam," said Mook, " just now 
you invited all the little ones to come to your 
feast. I, too, am a little one — and oh ! so 
hungry ! I thought I might come too." 

" Ah, well," said the old dame, " I suppose 
you must be a stranger in this town, for 
everyone here knows that I don't cook for 

anyone but my darling cats, and that some- 
times, like to-day, I invite their little play- 
mates from the neighbourhood to dine with 
them. But since you are so very tired and 
hungry, you may stay here and feast with my 

Mook was very grateful, and the cats' food 
really was most delicious, better than any- 
thing he had ever tasted in his father's house. 
So, when he had finished his meal and the 
old woman told him that if he liked he might 
remain in her service, he gladly accepted the 

The work he had to do was not very diffi- 
cult. It consisted in shaking and airing 
the satin cushions on which the cats slept, in 
sweeping out the rooms, and carrying in the 
meals. Mook was fond of animals and en- 
joyed his duties. Already he thought he 
had found his fortune, when a change came. 
Besides the cats there was also a small dog in 
the house, for which, however, the old woman 
did not seem to care at all. But Mook took 
a great fancy to the little creature, and spent 
all his spare time in playing with it. Whether 
the cats resented his preference for doggie, 
or be it for some other reason, they soon began 
to be very troublesome — not when the old 
woman was anywhere near, but when Mook 
was alone with them in the house. Sometimes 
they would race about like wild things, over- 
turn dishes and break valuable vases ; then, 
when their mistress returned, they would 
pretend to be peacefully sleeping in their 
satin beds, and Mook was blamed for all the 
ruin. When he tried to explain the old woman 
refused to listen to him. She would not hear 
a word against her precious, innocent kitties. 
So Mook was scolded every day, until he felt 
that such a life was unbearable and longed 
to run away. This, however, he did not want 
to do without having received the wages that 
had at first been promised him, but which 
had never been forthcoming ; so he stayed 
on, although matters went from bad to worse. 

One morning the old woman had gone out, 
after scolding Mook soundly and telling him 
he was to have no dinner that day. He felt 
very miserable and was about to leave the 
house in despair, when his little dog friend 
came up to him and wheedled him so long, 
pulling at Mook's caftan, that he thought he 
would follow and see what doggie wanted 
with him. 

He was led to the door of a room he had 
never before noticed. The door stood ajar, 
and the dog pulled him into it. 

What a queer room it was ! Full of all 
kinds of rubbish and old clothes ; near the 




door stood an ebony walking-stick next to a 
huge pair of slippers. 

Suddenly Mook was struck with an idea. 
Why should he not pay himself the wages 
he had earned ? His own slippers were 
worn out, and those would do very nicely 
instead. The stick he would take as a support 
in walking. So he put on the new slippers, 
tcok the stick in his hand, and bade an 
affectionate farewell to his dog friend, who 
accompanied him to the door, joyously wagging 
his tail. Although these slippers were even 
larger than his former pair, it seemed to Mook 
that walking was much easier this time, and 
he went so fast that in a few minutes he had 
left the town far behind him, and at sunset 
he was in another country. 

He was getting tired now, and wanted to 
rest awhile ; but, do what he would, he could 
not stop himself. Some strange force in the 
slippers carried him on and on against his 
will. This frightened him so that he called 
out, " Whoa ! whoa ! " just as he would have 
done to a horse, and immediately the slippers 
stood still. 

Now that Mook understood their peculiari- 
ties he was thoroughly delighted, and he lay 
down to sleep well content. He dreamt that 
the little dog was standing beside him. 

" Mook," it said, in human speech, " you 
have always been very kind to me, and that 
is why I helped you to get those slippers 
and that walking-stick. You must know 
that I am not really a dog at all, but a fairy, 
and that I always reward those who have 
been good to me in my animal form. One 
secret of the slippers you've already found 
out for yourself — that they carry you along 
at the rate of many miles a minute ; but they 
still possess another property. If you turn 
round three times on the right heel, and wish 
yourself at any particular place, you will 
arrive there at the very moment. The magic 
of the walking-stick is that it can discover 
hidden treasure. When you hold this stick 
in your right hand and pass over a spot where 
treasure is buried, the stick will tap three 
times on the ground for gold, and twice for 
silver. Then, if you dig in that place you 
will find the treasure." 

At this moment Mook woke up and found 
the sun already high in the heavens. He 
thought : "I may as well try whether my 
dream told me true or not." He sprang up 
and attempted to whirl round on his right 
heel, but the slippers were so very much too 
large that this was anything but an easy job. 
Time after time he fell sprawling, but, being a 
persevering little mortal, he did not give it 

up easily, and tried until he succeeded. Three 
times he span round, crying, " I wish myself 
in the next town ! " And there he stood, 
in the middle of a large market-place ! 

People were hurrying hither and thither, 
and often tripped over Mook's long scimitar. 
Then they scowled at him, so he sought a 
quiet street, where he could think over the 
best way of turning his new possessions to 
good account. 

He decided to go to the palace and offer 
his services as runner to the King. But when 
he came there and stated his errand no one 
would take him seriously. Such a little 
fellow with such a heavy head, and then to 
try and make people believe he could run 
faster than the fastest runner ! It was pre- 
posterous ! Still, as the King's Steward 
thought his master might be amused by the 
ridiculous little creature he took Mook with 
him to the audience chamber. 

The King, who was fond of a joke, was 
hugely delighted with Mook, and promised to 
let one of his runners race against him that 
very afternoon. The news spread fast 
through the town that an amusing spectacle 
was awaiting everyone who would come to the 
racecourse behind the palace. Meanwhile, 
Mook was regaled with good things in the 
Royal kitchen, so that when the afternoon 
came he felt quite strong and happy, and did 
not in the least mind the laughter that greeted 
his appearance on the racecourse. Innumer- 
able spectators crowded all around the course. 
The King, with his whole Court and all the 
Princes and Princesses, was seated in the grand 
stand, and Mook made such an elaborate bow 
before His Majesty that laughter broke out 
afresh. Then his opponent, the very fleetest 
of the King's runners, took his place beside 
him ; the Princess Amarza, the King's 
favourite daughter, gave the signal, and away 
went the competitors. 

At first Mook went slowly and let the 
runner get a good start, but then he began to 
race in earnest. His slippers scarcely seemed 
to touch the ground. In a few seconds he 
had overhauled the runner, then he passed 
him and reached the goal long before the 
other had got half-way round the course. 

Astonishment had at first kept everyone 
spellbound, but now the applause burst forth. 
Victorious Mook was led in triumph before 
the King, and received the prize from the 
hands of Princess Amarza. The King was 
so pleased with Mook that he then and there 
appointed him his special messenger. He was 
housed in the palace and took his meals with 

^iAi^iYwfe&AN" 16 most secret 



and important messages were entrusted to 
him, and he accomplished all his journeys 
with such incredible swiftness that he became 
prime favourite with His Majesty. 

Now, truly, it seemed as if Mook had found 
his fortune at last ; but he was soon to learn 
the instability of Royal favour. Black envy 
consumed the her.r^s of all the other courtiers. 
44 What ! This ridiculous dwarf, who could 
do nothing but run fast, had ousted them from 
their master's favour. It could not be 
tolerated ! Some way must be found to 
get rid of him ! " 

Mook noticed how little he was liked by his 
companions, and, as he was a kindhearted 
little fellow who wished to be friends with 
everyone, he pondered how he could mend 
matters. He bethought himself of his magic 
walking-stick, for he had noticed how eager 
they all were for money. 

" If I can find gold and give it to these 
people they will be sure to like me ! " 

So thought Mook, and thereby proved how 
neglected his education had been, otherwise 
he would have known that gold does not buy 
true friendship. 

He now always took his stick with him 
when he went out, and one day, in a distant 
part of the palace grounds, the stick quivered 
in his hand and tapped three times on the 
ground. Mock made some marks on the trees 
near the spot to help him refind it, and that 
very night he took a spade and crept noise- 
lessly out of the palace. It was heavy work, 
this digging, but Mook persevered until he 
found a stone jar full of gold pieces. Of these 
he took as many as he could carry and hid 
them in his room. 

The following day he commenced dealing 
out his riches with a lavish hand, but, far 
from earning the friendship of those who 
received it, it only excited their jealousy more 
and more. They muttered ugly things among 
themselves about Mook and the way he had 
come by such large sums of money. They 
spied upon him continually, and one night 
they surprised him as he visited his hidden 
hoard in the garden to replenish his sadly- 
shrunken purse. They let him get back to 
his rooms unmolested, but next day the 
Lord High Treasurer went to the King and 
openly accused Mook of stealing from the 
Royal Exchequer. It certainly was true 
that vast sums had somehow disappeared. 
The Lord High Treasurer could have told 
more about that had he chosen, and the King 
had begun to notice the dwindling of his trea- 
sures, too, so it was a godsend to the treasurer 
to be able to lay all the blame on Mook. 

At first the King refused to believe the 
story, but when his courtiers showed him the 
buried jar of gold, and when the Lord High 
Treasurer swore that this was the very sum 
he missed in the exchequer, the King was 
convinced, and his wrath against Mook knew 
no bounds. He was condemned to death, 
and thrust into the darkest dungeon to await 
his doom. Moreover, he was so securely 
chained to the wall that it was impossible 
for him to turn three times on his right heel 
and wish himself out of the country. 

Mook was young. He did not want to 
die, so he thought and thought of some way 
of saving his life. When he had made up his 
mind, he sent a message to the King, begging 
to be allowed a few moments in his presence, 
then if the Monarch promised to spare his 
life he would reveal to him an important 
secret. This was conceded. Mook, closely 
guarded, was brought before His Majesty. 
He revealed to him the properties of the 
ebony stick, and said that, far from stealing 
any treasure, he had just discovered this 
gold. To see whether his story was true, 
the Monarch buried some silver in the garden, 
and then made Mook search foritwith his sti9k. 
In a very short time the stick tapped twice 
on the ground, and the King saw that Mook 
had spoken the truth. 

But the crafty Monarch, although now 
convinced of his innocence, was not content 
with this one secret. He said, " It is true 
I promised to spare your life, and so I will, 
but I shall keep you locked up in the dark 
dungeon if you don't tell me the secret of 
your swiftness as well." 

What was poor Mook to do ? That one 
night in the cold damp dungeon had been 
more than enough for him ; he did not want 
to spend his whole life there ; so he told the 
King that the secret of his swiftness lay in 
the slippers. The King then calmly took 
possession of stick and slippers, and had 
them deposited in his treasury ; but Mook 
he exiled from his dominion, saying, " Go 
at once ; and if ever you are caught here 
again, you shall certainly be put to death." 

So Mook was turned out of the palace, 
and hastened away from the town poorer than 

Happily for him the kingdom was not a 
large one, so in a few hours' time he had got 
beyond its limits, and as he was thoroughly 
disgusted with men and their ways, he left 
the high road and struck out across the country 
until he came to a beautiful grove of fig 
trees, through which flowed a placid stream of 
clear water. As he was very hungry he looked 




up into the fig trees, although scarcely expect- 
ing to find any ripe fruit, as it was yet too 
early in the season for figs. To his surprise 
and delight, however, he saw the loveliest 
ripe fruit, of an alluring rose colour, close 
within reach. He ate plenteously of them, 
and then went to the stream for a drink of 

As he bent over the dear waters he started 
back in horrified amazement at the strange 
sight that met his gaze. Two long donkey's 
ears stuck out high above bis turban, and 
together with a thick, long nose were most 
unwelcome additions to his never very 
beautiful appearance ! 

11 Well," sighed Mook, " I certainly deserve 
a pair of donkey's ears for being ass enough 
to put my trust in kings and courtiers, I 
never was beautiful, but now 1 look so absurd 
that even if I wished I would never dare 
venture back to the haunts of men." 

His Jong tramp and all the emotions he 
had undergone had tired him out, so he lay 
down and sltpt soundly until nt xt morning. 
Then the pangs of hunger again made him 
turn to the fig trees. 
This time he singled out 
a tree with dark violet 
fruit, and as these figs 
tasted even better than 
those of the previous day, 
he ate quite a quantity 
of them. He smiled to 
himself rather ruefully in 
anticipation of what he 
would see when next 
he looked into the 
streamlet. His ears must 
now have become so 
long, he thought, that 
they could not possibly 
be tucked in under his 
turban. But when he did look into his rustic 
mirror he was even more surprised than be- 
fore. Not only were ears and thick, repellent 
nose gone, but his head was the size of that 
worn by the usual run of mortals, and, best of 
all, his stature was of the ordinary size, 

Mook was overjoyed. He did not now feel 
so shy of returning to the inhabited world, and 
moreover he was struck with a brilliant idea. 

He gathered some fig-leaves and a nice 
quantity of the rose-coloured figs and started 
for the town from which he had been exiled. 
You see, he was certain that no one could 
possibly recognize him now. 

Once in the town, he sat himself down under 
the palace gateway and spread his figs on a 
bed of leaves on the pavement before him as 

he had seen other fruitsellers 
do. That day Mook had not 
long to wait. The Lord High 
Steward soon appeared, and at 
once noticed the wonderful 
figs. He bought them without 
haggling over the price, saying 
they would be sure to please 
His Majesty, as they were the 
first he had seen that year. 

Mook shook with inward 
mirth as he pictured to himself 

what the King would look like when he had 
partaken of the dainty, but very wisely he 
did not stay in the town, but returned to 
his fig -grove, after having bought, with 
part of the money received for the figs, an 
astrologer's gown and outfit and a long 
white beard of goat's hair. 

Meanwhile the Steward had returned to 
the palace, and at dessert that day he placed 
a silver dish, with the figs prettily arranged 
on it, in the middle of the table. There was a 
shout of delight from the King, and from all 
the Princes and Princesses. 

" This is indeed a pleasant surprise, my 
Lord Steward ! n cried His Majesty, rubbing 
his hands. (i Bring this dish of figs to me at 
once, andCfrrgMadilroift'ithem, 1 ' 




"everyone had donkey's bars and long, thick noses! 

This was done, and the King first kid aside 
a goodly share for himself ; then he dis- 
tributed the rest. The Princes and Princesses 
got two figs each, and the courtiers each got 
one. Then the feast began. 

Suddenly Princess Amarza looked at the 
King, " Why, father/ ' she tittered, " how 
awfully funny you look ! " 

The King glanced up from devouring his 
tenth fig. He wanted to reprimand Amarza 
for her disrespectful utterance, but the words 
died on his lips as he looked , in the greatest 
amazement, from one to the other of all those 
seated at table. Everyone had donkey's 
ears and long, thick noses ! But the ears and 
noses of the Princes and Princesses were 
longer than those of the courtiers. 

The King put his hands to his head, and 
there he felt a pair of ears far outreaching 
those of any of the others. He hurried to his 
.room and looked in the glass. Yes ; it was 
but too true ! Two donkey's ears stuck up 
straight from his head, and his nose was like 
an elephant's trunk ! 

Immediately all the doctors of the town 
were summoned to the palace. They tried 
this remedy and that, but all to no avail. For 

many days they doctored 
the King, the Princes and 
Princesses ,and all the cour- 
tiers ; but the ears and 
noses remained as before. 
One of the Princes even 
submitted to an operation, 
but no sooner were the ears 
cut off than new ones 
sprouted up again. The 
King, who hated to be ridi- 
culed, and now felt sure 
that he and his Court were 
the laughing-stock of all 
the people, issued a pro- 
clamation promising untold 
wealth to the man who could 
rid him of his deformity. This 
naturally attracted many 
pretenders, but, needless to 
say, none of them could 
accomplish the feat. 
Mook now thought the time had 
come for him to act. So, clad tn 
his astrologer'sgarb and carrying a 
covered basket with a few violet- 
roloured figs, he presented himself 
at the palace, and, on stating his 
errand, was conducted to His 
Majesty's apartments, He could 
scarcely keep from laughing out 
loud when he saw how supremely 
ridiculous the King looked, but he assured the 
Monarch that he could cure him, At first the 
King, taught by many disappointments, was 
not disposed to believe him, but when Princess 
Amarza offered to try the remedy, and when 
he saw that as soon as she had eaten the 
violet fig the astrologer had given her the dis- 
figuring nose and ears disappeared — why, 
then he took the stranger by the hand and, 
leading him into his treasury, he promised 
to give him as much gold and precious stones 
as he might wish. 

As soon as Mook entered the treasury he 
saw his slippers and walking-stick at the 
other end of the room, but he wandered about 
slowly, pretending to examine the treasures, 
until he came quite close to his own property. 
Then, in a flash, he got his feet into his 
slippers, caught up the stick, and, whirling 
rapidly round on his right heel, he wished 
himself back in Bussorah, 

Long before the King had recovered from 
his disgusted surprise Mook was home again 
in his native town, where his magic stick kept 
him well supplied with wealth and his magic 
slippers procured him all the change of scene 
he might wish tBfi m 


A I 


[ We shall be glad to receive Contributions to this section^ and to pay for such as are accepted*] 


ARK MARK ABLE experience which befell 
F. Findlay, the Metropolitan Golf Club's pro- 
fessional, while playing over the club's course at 
Oakleigh, during a thunderstorm, was recently recorded 
in the Melbourne Argus. Findlay was in the act of 
making an iron shot when a flash of lightning struck 
his club at the moment of impact with the ball. 
The shock was severely felt by the player, who stated 
that it was as though a red-hot iron had been thrust 
up Ills arm, mid upon reaching the ball he fount! I hat 
half of it had been burnt away. — Mr. Albert H, Law- 
son, State School, Irrewillipe, Victoria, Australia, 


THE greatest sightseeing conveyance in public 
use is a passenger-carrying barge fitted up to 
carry sightseers through the Panama Canal. Its 
foundation is a steel barge, one hundred and hfty-fcur 
feet long, thirty -two feet beam, ten feet seven inches 
in depth t and five hundred gross tons, which was 
brought to the isthmus in 1909* Like the familiar 
sightseeing trucks, the seats are arranged in tiers, 
gradually descending from a height of eight feet nine 
inches in the rear to two feet at the forward end, 
and there is standing room for passengers on the 
roof, — Mr. Frank W. Lane, 1,303!, Waller Street, San 
Francisco, Cah, XLS-A- 


ON our East Coast the villagers are fond of " poller* 
ing " (Old French polite, a beam ?) — i.e. t 
gathering pieces of drift-wood cast ashore when the east 
wind is blowing. Theoretically all such wood belongs to 
a Government official, the u Receiver of Wrecks/' and 
if the wood is large enough, or sound enough, to have 
any market value , it must be reported to the coast- 
guard, afler which the finder can either purchase the 
wood at a nominal price or receive for '* salvage " about 
one- third of the proceeds of its sale by auction. The 
bulk of the drift-wood thrown ashore is, however, of no 
value except for domestic fires, and thrifty villagers 
keep themselves stocked with fuel by sys tenia tic 
" pokering." Sometimes they carry the wood, as 
they pick it up, in a sack : sometimes in a wheel- 
barrow. But an ordinary wheel -barrow sinks in the 
sand, and so the " polterer "here shown has ingeniously 
made for his own use a (i beach - barrow/* the wheel 

of which is an old barrel thrown up by the sea, and 
the axle-bearings are two stout nails driven securely 
into the top and bottom. The frame of this " beach - 
barrow " is made of drift-wood, and is covered with 
a piece of canvas, on which the load is placed. It is 
thus very light, and, owing to the broad surface of 
its wheel, it will run quite easily over soft sand 
or rough shingle. The little boy in the photograph is 
the iL polterers T ' grandson, who is about to load the 
barrow with a derelict wooden buoy, such as are used 
by the Dutch for floating their fishing-nets. Some 
years ago, when the coast was strewn with deal planks 
from the wreck of a timber ship, and everybody 
made his u pile/' this particular polterer n sent in 
through the coastguard an offer of fifteen shillings 
for his collection. This he had calculated at the rate 
of three halfpence per cubic foot, which is about 
equal to sixpenny worth of coal. Other people sent in 
simitar offers. But the Receiver of Wrecks insisted 
on an auction sale, with the result that this lot, for 
which fifteen shillings had been offered, realized ex- 
actly five shillings' after deducting '* salvage " ! 
The " polterer " of the photograph has made for 
himself a new proverb, l+ It is an ill wind that blows 
nobody a^ri^rt^l-frdtr. H. E. Webb, 7, Scarsdale 

v %lftBfTYftf%CHIGAN 

(""rw^nL'' Original from 




Vol. xlviii. No. 285. 

\alley 0/ Fear 







Illustrated by Frank Wiles 
part *r 





AM inclined to think " 

said I. 

" I should do so/' Sher- 
lock Holmes remarked, im- 

I believe that I am one 
of the most long-suffering 
ot mortals, but I admit that I was annoyed 
at the sardonic interruption. 

" Really, Holmes/' said I, severely, " you 
are a little trying at times." 

He was too much absorbed with his own 
thoughts to give any immediate answer to 
my remonstrance. He leaned upon his hand, 
with his untasted breakfast before him, and 
he stared at the slip of paper which he had 

Vol. xlviii.— 31. Copyright, 1914, 

just drawn from its envelope. Then he took 
the envelope itself, held it up to the light*, and 
very carefully studied both the exterior and 
the flap. 

" It is Porlock's writing," said he, thought- 
fully. " I can hardly doubt that it is Por- 
lock's writing, though I have only seen it 
twice before. The Greek ' e ' with the 
peculiar top flourish is distinctive. But if it 
is from Porlock, then it must be something 
of the very first importance." 

He was speaking to himself rather than to 
me, but my vexation disappeared in the 
interest which the words awakened. 

" Who, then, is Porlock ? " I asked. 

" Porlock, Watson, is a nom de plume, a 
mere identification mark, but behind it lies 
a shifty and evasive personality. In a former 

byA.ConanWl-'ll " <■ 



letter he frankly informed me that the name 
was not his own, and defied me ever to trace 
him among the teeming millions of this great 
city. Porlock is important, not for himself, 
but for the great man with whom he is in 
touch. Picture to yourself the pilot-fish with 
the shark, the jackal with the lion — anything 
that is insignificant in companionship with 
what is formidable. Not only formidable, 
Watson, but sinister — in the highest degree 
sinister. That is where he comes within my 
purview. You have heard me speak of Pro- 
fessor Moriarty ? " 

" The famous scientific criminal, as famous 
among crooks as " 

" My blushes, Watson/' Holmes murmured, 
in a deprecating voice. 

" I was about to say ' as he is unknown to 
the public.' " 

" A touch — a distinct touch ! " cried 
Holmes. " You are developing a certain 
unexpected vein of pawky humour, Watson, 
against which I must learn to guard myself. 
But in calling Moriarty a criminal you are 
uttering libel in the eyes of the law, and 
there lies the glory and the wonder of it. 
The greatest schemer of all time, the organizer 
of every devilry, the controlling brain of the 
underworld — a brain which might have made 
or marred the destiny of nations. That's 
the man. But so aloof is he from general 
suspicion — so immune from criticism — so 
admirable in his management and self- 
effacement, that for those very words that 
you have uttered he could hale you to a court 
and emerge with your year's pension as a 
solatium for his wounded character. Is he 
not the celebrated author of ' The Dynamics 
of an Asteroid ' — a book which ascends to 
such rarefied heights of pure mathematics that 
it is said that there was no man in the scientific 
press capable of criticizing it ? Is this a 
man to traduce ? Foul-mouthed doctor and 
slandered professor — such would be your 
respective roles. That's genius, Watson. 
But if I am spared by lesser men our day will 
surely come." 

" May I be there to see ! " I exclaimed, 
devoutly. " But you were speaking of this 
man Porlock." 

" Ah, yes — the so-called Porlock is a link 
in the chain some little way from its great 
attachment. Porlock is not quite a sound 
link, between ourselves. He is the only 
flaw in that chain so far as I have been able 
to test it." 

" But no chain is stronger than its weakest 

" Exactly, my dear Watson, Hence the 

extreme importance of Porlock. Led on by 
some rudimentary aspirations towards right, 
and encouraged by the judicious stimulation 
of an occasional ten-pound note sent to him 
by devious methods, he has once or twice 
given me advance information which has 
been of value — that highest value which 
anticipates and prevents rather than avenges 
crime. I cannot doubt that if we had the 
cipher we should find that this communication 
is of the nature that I indicate." 

Again Holmes flattened out the paper upon 
his unused plate. I rose and, leaning over 
him, stared down at the curious inscription, 
which ran as follows :— 

534 C2 13 127 36 31 4 17 21 41 


26 BIRLSTONE 9 13 171 

" What do you make of it, Holmes ? " 
" It is obviously an attempt to convey 
secret information." 

" But what is the use of a cipher message 
without the cipher ? " 
" In this instance, none at all." 
" Why do you say ' in this instance ' ? " 
" Because there are many ciphers which 
I would read as easily as I do the apocrypha 
of the agony column. Such crude devices 
amuse the intelligence without fatiguing it. 
But this is different. It is clearly a reference 
to the words in a page of some book. Until 
I am told which page and which book I am 

" But why ' Douglas ' and * Birlstone ' ? " 
" Clearly because those are words which 
were not contained in the page in question." 

" Then why has he not indicated the 
book ? " 

" Your native shrewdness, my dear Watson, 
that innate cunning which is the delight of 
your friends, would surely prevent you from 
enclosing cipher and message in the same 
envelope. Should it miscarry you are undone. 
As it is, both have to go wrong before any 
harm comes from it. Our second post is 
now overdue, and I shall be surprised if it 
does not bring us either a further letter of 
explanation or, as is more probable, the very 
volume to which these figures refer." 

Holmes's calculation was fulfilled within 
a very few minutes by the appearance of 
Billy, the page, with the very letter which we 
were expecting. 

" The same writing," remarked Holmes, as 
he opened the envelope,, " and actually 
signed/' he added, in an c^Itaat voice, as 




he unfolded the epistle. " Come, we are 
getting on, Watson." 

His brow clouded, however, as he glanced 
over the contents. 

" Dear me, this is very disappointing ! 
I fear, Watson, that all our expectations 
come to nothing. I trust that the man 
Porlock will come to no harm. 

" * Dear Mr. Holmes/ he says, ' I will go 
no further in this matter. It is too dangerous. 
He suspects me. 1 can see that he suspects 
me. He came to me quite unexpectedly 
after I had actually addressed this envelope 
with the intention of sending you the key to 
the cipher. I was able to cover it up. If 
he had seen it, it would have gone hard with 
me. But I read suspicion in his eyes. Please 
burn the cipher message, which can now be 
of no use to you. — Fred Porlock.' " 

Holmes sat for some little time twisting 
this letter between his fingers, and frowning, 
as he stared into the fire. 

" After all," he said at last, " there may be 
nothing in it. It may be only his guilty 
conscience. Knowing himself to be a traitor, 
he may have read the accusation in the 
other's eyes." 

" The other being, I presume, Professor % 
Moriarty ? " 

" No less. When any of that party talk 
about * he/ you know whom they mean. 
There is one predominant 'he* for all of them." 

" But what can he do ? " 

" Hum ! That's a large question. When 
you have one of the first brains of Europe up 
against you and all the powers of darkness 
at his back, there are infinite possibilities. 
Anyhow, friend Porlock is evidently scared 
out of his senses. Kindly compare the 
writing in the note with that upon its 
envelope, which was done, he tells us, before 
this ill-omened visit. The one is clear and 
firm ; the other hardly legible." 

" Why did he write at all ? Why did he 
not simply drop it ? " 

" Because he feared I would make some 
inquiry after him in that case, and possibly 
bring trouble on him." 

" No doubt," said I. " Of course "—I had 
picked up the original cipher message and 
was bending my brows over it — " it's pretty 
maddening to think that an important 
secret may lie here on this slip of paper, 
and that k is beyond human power to pene- 
trate it." 

Sherlock Holmes had pushed away his 
untasted breakfast and lit the unsavoury 
pipe which was the companion of his deepest 

Digitized by L*OOQle 

" I wonder ! " said he, leaning back and 
staring at the ceiling. " Perhaps there are 
points which have escaped your Machiavellian 
intellect. Let us consider the problem in 
the light of pure reason. This man's refer- 
ence is to a book. That is our point of 

" A somewhat vague one." 

" Let us see, then, if we can narrow it down. 
As I focus my mind upon it, it seems rather 
less impenetrable. What indications have we 
as to this book ? " 


" Well, well, it is surely not quite so bad 
as that. The cipher message begins with 
a large 534, does it not ? We may take it as 
a working hypothesis that 534 is the par- 
ticular page to which the cipher refers. So 
our book has already become a large book, 
which is surely something gained. What 
other indications have we as to the nature of 
this large book ? The next sign is C2. 
What do you make of that, Watson ? " 

" Chapter the second, no doubt." 

" Hardly that, Watson. You will, I am 
sure, agree with me that if the page be given 
the number of the chapter is immaterial. 
Also that if page 534 only finds us in the 
second chapter, the length of the first one 
must have been really intolerable." 

" Column ! " I cried. 

" Brilliant, Watson. You are scintillating 
this morning. If it is not column, then T am 
very much deceived. So now, you see, we 
begin to visualize a large book, printed in 
double columns, which are each of a con- 
siderable length, since one of the wofds is 
numbered in the doct/ment as the two hundred 
and ninety-third. Have we reached the 
limits of what reason can supply ? " 

" I fear that we have." 

" Surely you do yourself an injustice. 
One more coruscation, my dear Watson. 
Yet another brain-wave. Had the volume 
been an unusual one he would have sent it 
to me. Instead of that he had intended, 
before his plans were nipped, to send me the 
clue in this envelope. He says so in his note. 
This would seem to indicate that the book is 
one which he thought that I would have no 
difficulty in finding for myself. He had it, 
and he imagined that I would have it too. 
In short, Watson, it is a very common book." 

" What you say certainly sounds plausible." 

" So we have contracted our field of search 
to a large book, printed in double columns 
and in common use." 

" The Bible ! " I cried, triumphantly. 

" Good, WEitsoiij gwd I But not ; if I may 










say so, quite good enough. Even if I accepted 
the compliment for myself, I could hardly 
name any volume which would be less likely 
to lie at the elbow of one of Moriarty's 
associates. Besides, the editions of Holy 
Writ are so numerous that he could hardly 
suppose that two copies would have the same 
pagination. This is clearly a book which is 
standardized. He knows for certain that his 
page 534 will exactly agree with my page 


" But very few books would correspond 
with that." 

" Exactly. Therein lies our salvation. 
Our search is narrowed down to standardized; 
books which anyone may be supposed -to 

uc Bradshaw ' ! " ,-, 

" There are difficulties, Watson. Th$ 
vocabulary of ' Bradshaw ' is nervous and terse, 
but limited. The selection of words would 
hardly lend itself to the sending of general 
messages. We will eliminate ' Bradshaw.' 
The dictionary is, I fear, inadmissible for the 
same reason. What, then, is left ? " 

" An almanack." 

" Excellent, Watson ! I am very much 
mistaken if you have not touched the spot. 
An almanack ! Let us consider the claims of 
' Whitaker's Almanack.' It is in common use. 
It has the requisite number of pages. It is 
in double column. Though reserved in its 
earlier vocabulary, it becomes, if I remember 
right, quite garrulous towards the end." He 
picked the volume from his desk. " Here is 
page 534, column two, a substantial block of 
print dealing, I perceive, with the trade and 
resources of British India. Jot down the 
words, Watson. Number thirteen is * Mah- 
ratta.' Not, I fear, a very auspicious begin- 
ning. Number one hundred and twenty- 
seven is ' Government,' which at least makes 
sense, though somewhat irrelevant to our- 
selves and Professor Moriarty. Now let us 
try again. What does the Mahratta Govern- 
ment do ? Alas ! the next word is ' pigs'- 
bristles.' We are undone, my good Watson ! 
It is finished." 

He had spoken in jesting vein, but the 
twitching of his bushy eyebrows bespoke his 
disappointment and irritation. I sat help- 
less and unhappy, staring into the fire, A 
long silence was broken by a sudden exclama- 
tion from Holmes, who dashed at a cupboard, 
from which he emerged with a second yellow- 
covered volume in his hand. 

" We pay the price, Watson, for being too 
up-to-date," he cried. " We are before our 
time, and suffer the usual penalties. Being 

the seventh of January, we have very 
properly laid in the new almanack. It is 
more than likely that Porlock took his message 
from the old one. No doubt he would have 
told us so had his letter of explanation been 
written. Now let us see what page 534 has 
in store for us. Number thirteen is * There/ 
which is much more promising. Number 
one hundred and twenty-seven is ' is ' — 
4 There is ' " — Holmes's eyes were gleaming 
with excitement, and his thin, nervous fingers 
twitched as he counted the words — " ' danger.' 
Ha ! ha ! Capital ! Put that down, Watson. 
' There is danger — may — come — very — soon 
— one.' Then we have the name ' Douglas ' 
— ' rich — country — now — at — Birlstone — 
House — Birlstone — confidence — is — pressing.' 
There, Watson ! what do you think of pure 
reason and its fruits ? If the greengrocer 
had such a thing as a laurel-wreath I should 
send Billy round for it." 

I was staring at the strange message which 
I had scrawled, as he deciphered it, upon a 
sheet of foolscap on my knee. 

" What a queer, scrambling way of express- 
ing his meaning ! " said I. 

" On the contrary, he has done quite 
remarkably well," said Holmes. " When you 
search a single column for words with which 
to express your meaning, you can hardly 
expect to get everything you want. You are 
bound to leave something to the intelligence 
of your correspondent. The purport is per- 
fectly clear. Some devilry is intended against 
one Douglas, whoever he may be, residing as 
stated, a rich country gentleman. He is 
sure — ' confidence ' was as near as he could 
get to ( confident ' — that it is pressing. There 
is our result, and a very workmanlike little 
bit of analysis it was." 

Holmes had the impersonal joy of the true 
artist in his better work, even as he mourned 
darkly when it fell below the high level to 
which he aspired. He was still chuckling 
over his success when Billy swung open the 
door and Inspector MacDonald of Scotland 
Yard was ushered into the room. 

Those were the early days at the end of the 
'eighties, when Alec MacDonald was far from 
having attained the national fame which he 
has now achieved. He was a young but 
trusted member of the detective force, who 
had distinguished himself in several cases 
which had been entrusted to him. His tall, 
bony figure gave promise of exceptional 
physical strength, while his great cranium 
and deep-set, lustrous eyes spoke no less 
clearly of the keen intelligence which twinkled 
out from behind his bushy eyebrows. He 





v v v>l - Original from 





■ .,.__,!_ ( original Tram 





was a silent, precise man, with a dour nature 
and a hard Aherdonian accent. Twice 
already in his career had Holmes helped him 
to attain success, his own sole reward being 
the intellectual joy of the problem. For this 
reason the affection and respect of the Scotch- 
man for his amateur colleague were profound, 
and he showed them by the frankness with 
which he consulted Holmes in every difficulty. 
Mediocrity knows nothing higher than itself, 
but talent instantly recognizes genius, and 
MacDonald had talent enough for his pro- 
fession to enable him to perceive that there 
was no humiliation in seeking the assistance 
of one who already stood alone in Europe, 
both in bis gifts and in his experience. 
Holmes was not prone to friendship, but he 
was tolerant of the big Scotchman, and smiled 
it the sight of him. 

" You are an early bird, Mr. Mac," said he. 
" I wish you luck with your worm. I fear 
this means that there is some mischief 

" If you said * hope ' instead of * fear ' it 
would be nearer the truth, I'm thinking, Mr. 
Holmes," the inspector answered, with a 
knowing grin. " Well, maybe a wee nip 
would keep out the raw morning chill. No, 
I won't smoke, I thank you. I'll have to be 
pushing on my way, for the early hours of a 
case are the precious ones, as no man knows 
better than your own self. But — but " 

The inspector had stopped suddenly, and 
was staring with a look of absolute amazement 
at a paper upon the table. It was the sheet 
upon which I had scrawled the enigmatic 

" Douglas ! " he stammered. " Birlstone ! 
What's this, Mr. Holmes ? Man, it's witch- 
craft ! Where in the name of all that is 
wonderful did you get those names ? " 

" It is a cipher that Dr. Watson and I have 
had occasion to solve. But why — what's 
amiss with the names ? " 

The inspector looked from one to the other 
of us in dazed astonishment. 

" Just this," said he, " that Mr. Douglas, 
of Birlstone Manor House, was horribly 
murdered this morning." 



It ^as one of those dramatic moments 
for which my friend existed. It would be 
an over-statement to say that he was shocked 
or even excited by the amazing announce- 
ment. Without having a tinge of cruelty in 
his singular composition, he was undoubtedly 
callous from long over-stimulation. I Yet, if 

his emotions were dulled, his intellectual per- 
ceptions were exceedingly active. There was 
no trace then of the horror which I had myself 
felt at this curt declaration, but his face 
showed rather the quiet and interested com- 
posure of the chemist who sees the crystals 
falling into position from his over-saturated 

" Remarkable ! " said he ^ " remarkable ! " 

" You don't seem surprised." 

" Interested, Mr. Mac, but hardly sur- 
prised. Why should I be surprised ? I 
receive an anonymous communication from 
a quarter which I know to be important, 
warning me that danger threatens a certain 
person. Within an hour I learn that this 
danger has actually materialized, and that 
the person is dead. I am interested, but, as 
you observe, I am net surprised." 

In a few short sentences he explained to the 
inspector the facts about the letter and the 
cipher. MacDonald sat with his chin on 
his hands, and his great sandy eyebrows 
bunched into a yellow tangle. 

" I was going down to Birlstone this 
morning," said he. " I had come to ask you 
if you cared to come with me — you and your 
friend here. But from what you say we 
might perhaps be doing better work in 

" I rather think not," said Holmes. 

" Hang it all, Mr. Holmes ! " cried the 
inspector. " The papers will be full of the 
Birlstone Mystery in a day or two, but where's 
the mystery if there is a man in London who 
prophesied the crime before ever it occurred ? 
We have only to lay our hands on that man 
and the rest will follow." 

" No doubt, Mr. Mac. But how did you 
propose to lay your hands on the so-called 
Porlock ? " 

MacDonald turned over the letter which 
Holmes had handed him. 

" Posted in Camberwell — that doesn't help 
us much. Name, you say, is assumed. Not 
much to go on, certainly. Didn't you say 
that you have sent him money ? " 

" Twice." 

" And how ? " 

" In notes to Camberwell post-office." 

" Did you never trouble to see who called 
for them ? ' 

" No." 

The inspector looked surprised and a little 

" Why not ? " 

" Because I always keep faith. I had 
promised when he first wrote that I would not 
try to traos him/' 




it. IV 





K : 






" You think there is someone behind 
him ? " 

"I know there is." 

" This Professor that I have heard you 
mention ? " 

" Exactly." 

Inspector MacDonald smiled, and his eyelid 
quivered as he glanced towards me. 

" I won't conceal from you, Mr. Holmes, 
that we think in the C.I.D. that you have a 
wee bit of a bee in your bonnet over this 
Professor. I made some inquiries myself 
about the matter. He seems to be a very 
respectable, learned, and talented sort of 

" I'm glad you've got as far as to recognize 
the talent." 

" Man, you can't but recognize it. After 
I heard your view, I made it my business to 
see him. I had a chat with him on eclipses 
— how the talk got that way I canna think — 
but he had out a reflector lantern and a globe 
and made it all clear in a minute. He lent 
me a book, but I don't mind saying that 
it was a bit above my head, though I had a 
good Aberdeen upbringing. He'd have made 
a grand meenister, with his thin face and grey 
hair and solemn-like way of talking. When 
he put his hand on my shoulder as we were 
parting, it was like a father'^ blessing before 
you go out into the cold, cruel world." 

Holmes chuckled and rubbed his hands. 

" Great ! " he said ; " great ! Tell me, friend 
MacDonald ; this pleasing and touching inter- 
view was, I suppose, in the Professor's study?" 

" That's so." 

" A fine room, is it not ? " 

" Very fine — very handf ome indeed, Mr. 

" You sat in front of his writing-desk ? " 

" J ust ? -" 

" Sun in your eyes and his face in the 

shadow ? " 

" Well, it was evening, but I mind that 
the lamp was turned on my face." 

" It would be. Did you happen to observe 
a picture over the Professor's head ? " 

" I don't miss much, Mr. Holmes. Maybe 
I learned that from you. Yes, I saw the 
picture — a young woman with her head on 
her hands, keeking at you sideways." 

" That painting was by Jean Baptiste 

The inspector endeavoured to look in- 

" Jean Baptiste Greuze," Holmes con- 
tinued, joining his finger-tips and leaning 
well back in his chair, " was a French artist 
who flourished between the years 1750 and 

Vol xMii.-tt. 

1800. I allude, of course, to his working 
career. Modern criticism has more than 
endorsed the high opinion formed of him by 
his contemporaries." 

The inspector's eyes grew abstracted. 

" Hadn't we better " he said. 

" We are doing so," Holmes interrupted. 
" All that I am saying has a very direct and 
vital bearing upon what you have called the 
Birlstone Mystery. In fact, it may in a sense 
be called the very centre of it." 

MacDonald smiled feebly, and looked 
appealingly to me. 

" Your thoughts move a bit too quick for 
me, Mr. Holmes. You leave out a link or 
two, and I can't get over the gap. What in 
the whole wide world can be the connection 
between this dead painting man and the 
affair at Birlstone ? " 

" All knowledge comes useful to the detec- 
tive," remarked Holmes. " Even the trivial 
fact that in the year 1865 a picture by Greuze, 
entitled ' La Jeune Fille a l'agneau,' fetched 
one million two hundred thousand francs — 
more than forty thousand pounds — at the 
Portalis sale, may start a train of reflection 
in your mind." 

It was clear that it did. The inspector 
looked honestly interested. 

" I may remind you," Holmes continued, 
" that the Professor's salary can be ascertained 
in several trustworthy books of reference. 
It is seven hundred a year." 

" Then how could he buy " 

"Quite so. How could he?" 

" Aye, that's remarkable," said the in- 
spector, thoughtfully. " Talk away, Mr. 
Holmes. I'm just loving it. It's fine." 

Holmes smiled. He was always warmed 
by genuine admiration — the characteristic of 
the real artist. 

" What about Birlstone ? " he asked. 

" We've time yet," said the inspector, 
glancing at his watch. " I've a cab at the 
door, and it won't take us twenty minutes 
to Victoria. But about this picture — I 
thought you told me once, Mr. Holmes, 
that you had never met Professor Moriarty." 

" No, I never have." 

" Then how do you know about his 
rooms ? " 

"Ah, that's another matter. I have been 
three times in his rooms, twice waiting for 
him under different pretexts and leaving 
before he came. Once — well, I can hardly 
tell about the once to an official detective. 
It was on the last occasion that I took 
the liberty of running over his papers, with 
the most unexpected results." 



" You found something compromising ? " 
" Absolutely nothing. That was what 
amazed me. However, you have now seen 
the point of the picture. It shows him to be 
a very wealthy man. How did he acquire 
wealth ? He is unmarried. His younger 
brother is a station-master in the West of 
England. His chair is worth seven hundred 
a year. • And he owns a Greuze." 

" Well? " 

" Surely the inference is plain." 

11 You mean that he has a great income, 
and that he must earn it in an illegal 
fashion ? " 

" Exactly. Of course, I have other reasons 
for thinking so — dozens of exiguous threads 
which lead vaguely up towards the centre 
of the web where the poisonous motionless 
creature is lurking. I only mention the 
Greuze because it brings the matter within 
the range of your own observation." 

" Well, Mr. Holmes, I admit that what 
you say is interesting. It's more than interest- 
ing — it's just wonderful. But let us have it 
a little clearer if you can. Is it forgery, 
coining, burglary ? Where does the money 
come from ? " 

" Have you ever read of Jonathan Wild ? " 

11 Well, the name has a familiar sound. 
Someone in a novel, was he not ? I don't 
take much stock of detectives in novels — 
chaps that do things and never let you see 
how they do them. That's just inspiration, 
not business." 

" Jonathan Wild wasn't a detective, and 
he wasn't in a novel. He was a master 
criminal, and he lived last century — 1750 or 

" Then he's no use to me. I'm a practical 

" Mr. Mac, the most practical thing that 
ever you did in your life would be to shut 
yourself up for three months and read twelve 
hours a day at the annals of crime. Every- 
thing comes in circles, even Professor Moriarty. 
Jonathan Wild was the hidden force of the 
London criminals, to whom he sold his 
brains and his organization on a fifteen per 
cent, commission. The old wheel turns and 
the same spoke comes up. It's all been done 
before and will be again. I'll tell you one or 
two things about Moriarty which may interest 

" You'll interest me right enough." 

" I happen to know who is the first link 
in his chain — a chain with this Napoleon- 
gone-wrong at one end and a hundred broken 
fighting men, pickpockets, blackmailers, and 
card-sharpers at the other, with every sort 

of crime in between. His chief of the staff 
is Colonel Sebastian Moran, as aloof ajid 
guarded and inaccessible to the law as him- 
self. What do you think he pays him ? " 

" I'd like to hear." 

" Six thousand a year. That's paying for 
brains, you see — the American business 
principle. I learned that detail quite by 
chance. It's more than the Prime Minister 
gets. That gives you an idea of Moriarty 's 
gains and of the scale on which he- works. 
Another point. I made it my business to 
hunt down some of Moriarty's cheques lately 
— just common innocent cheques that he 
pays his household bills with. They were 
drawn on six different banks. Does that maJce 
any impression on your mind ? " 

" Queer, certainly. But what do you 
gather from it ? " 

" That he wanted no gossip about his 
wealth. No single man should know what 
he had. I have no doubt that he has twenty 
banking accounts — the bulk of his fortune 
abroad in the Deutsche Bank or the Credit 
Lyonnais as likely as not. Some time when 
you have a year or two to spare I commend 
to you the study of Professor Moriarty." 

Inspector MacDonald had grown steadily 
more impressed as the conversation proceeded. 
He had lost himself in his interest. Now his 
practical Scotch intelligence brought him 
back with a snap to the matter in hand. 

" He can keep, anyhow," said he. " You've 
got us side-tracked with your interesting 
anecdotes, Mr. Holmes. What really counts 
is your remark that there is some connec- 
tion between the Professor and the crime. 
That you get from the warning received 
through the. man Porlock. Can we for our 
present practical needs get any farther than 

" We may form some conception as to the 
motives of the crime. It is, as I gather from 
your original remarks, an inexplicable, or 
at least an unexplained, murder. Now, pre- 
suming that the source of the crime is as we 
suspect it to be, there might be t\fro different 
motives. In the first place, I may tell you 
that Moriarty rules with a rod of iron over 
his people. His discipline is tremendous. 
There is only one punishment in his code. 
It is death. Now, we might suppose that this 
murdered man — this Douglas, whose approach- 
ing fate was known by one of the arch- 
criminal's subordinates — had in some way 
betrayed the chief. His punishment followed 
and would be known to all, if only to put 
the fear of death into them." 

" Well, that is one suggestion, Mr. Holmes." 



"leaning forward in the cab, hoimes listened intently to < 1 ts;.':-<onai.ij's SHORT SKETCI 
ok r„ B . ROBLEM w H1C » A^Jffil^ttBnifcHteAH 



" The other is that it has been engineered 
by Moriarty in the ordinary course of busi- 
ness. Was there any robbery ? " 

" I have not heard." 

" If so it would, of course, be against the 
first hypothesis and in favour of the second. 
Moriarty may have been engaged to engineer 
it on a promise of part spoils, or he may have 
b$en paid So much down to manage it. Either 
is possible. But, whichever it may be, or if 
it is some third combination, it is down at 
Birlstone that we must seek the solution. I 
know our man too well to suppose that he has 
left anything up here which may lead us to him.' ' 

" Then to Birlstone we must go ! " cried 
MacDonald, jumping from his chair. " My 
word ! it's later than I thought. I can give 
you gentlemen five minutes for preparation, 
and that is all." 

" And ample for us both," said Holmes, 
as he sprang up and hastened to change from 
his dressing-gown to his coat. " While .we 
are on our way, Mr. Mac, I will ask yo t u to be 
good enough to tell me all about it." 

" All about it " proved to be disappoint- 
ingly little, and yet there was enough to assure 
us that the case before us might well be worthy 
of the expert's closest attention. He bright- 
ened and rubbed his thin hands together as 
he listened to the meagre but remarkable 
details. A long series of sterile^ weeks lay 
behind us, and here, at last, there was a fitting 
object for those remarkable powers which, 
like all special gifts, become irksome to their 
owner when they are not in use. That razor 
brain blunted and rusted with inaction. 
Sherlock Holmes's eyes glistened, his pale 
cheeks took a warmer hue, and his whole 
eager face shone with an inward light when the 
call for work reached him. Leaning forward 
inthe cab, he listened intently to MacDonald's 
short sketch of the problem which awaited 
us in Sussex. The inspector was himself 
dependent, as he explained to us, upon a 
scribbled account forwarded to him by the 
milk train in the early hours of the morning. 
White Mason, the local officer, was a personal 
friend, and hence MacDonald had been 
notified very much more promptly than is 

usual at Scotland Yard when provincials 
need their assistance. It is a very cold scent 
upon which the Metropolitan expert is 
generally asked to run. 

" Dear Inspector MacDonald," said the 
letter which he read to us, " official requisition 
for your services is in separate envelope. This 
is for your private eye. Wire me what train 
in the morning you can get for Birlstone, and 
I will meet it— or have it met if I am too 
occupied. This case is a snorter. Don't 
waste a moment in getting started. If you 
can bring Mr. Holmes, please do so, for he 
will find something after his own heart. You 
would think the whole thing had been fixed 
up for theatrical effect, if there wasn't a dead 
man in the middle of it. My word, it is a 
snorter ! " 

"Your friend, seems to be no fool," re- 
marked Holmes. 

" No, sir ; White Mason is a very live man, 
if I am any judge." 

" Well, have you anything more ? " 

" Only that he will give us every detail 
when we meet." 

" Then how did you get at Mr. Douglas 
and the fact that he had been horribly 
murdered ? " 

" That was in the enclosed official report. 
It didn't say * horrible.' That's not a recog- 
nized official term. It gave the name John 
Douglas. It mentioned that his injuries had 
been in the head, from the discharge of a shot- 
gun. It also mentioned the hour of the 
alarm, which was close on to midnight last 
night. It added that the case was un- 
doubtedly one of murder, but that no arrest 
had been made, and that the case was one 
which presented some very perplexing ahd 
extraordinary features. That's absolutely all 
we have at present, Mr. Holmes." 

" Then, with your permission, we will leave 
it at that, Mr. Mac. The temptation to form 
premature theories upon insufficient data is 
the bane of our profession. I can only see 
%\\o things for certain at present : a great 
brain in London and a dead man in Sussex. 
It's the chain between that we are going to 

(To be continued.) 

by Google 

Original from 




Illustrated by A. Gilbert. 

HE late Mr, Thomas J, 

Barratt, for over 

forty years the 

head of the house 

of A. and F. 
Pears, and probably the 
best - known advertising 
man of his time, was 
often urged to write his 
autobiography, and har- 
boured the intention for 
a time, but his life was 
far too busy to admit of 
the idea being carried 
out. The title of the 
book was to be Ki How I 
Spent Three Millions in 
Advertising/* and it is 
much to be regretted that 
Mt, Barratt did not live to 
enjoy the leisure necessary 
for completing such a work, 
which would assuredly have 
been both entertaining and 
instructive. He also pro- 
mised to contribute a paper 
of autobiography to this Magazine, but this 
project also was not finally completed at the 
time of his death. 

Many notes were made and collected from 
time to time, however, and a good deal was 
actually written — more still was dictated — 
but what exists is rather in the shape of dis- 
jointed episodes, expressions of opinion on 
advertising in its various aspects, views con- 
cerning business methods, and so forth, than 
adapted for consecutive handling as part of 
a story. The following extracts will, at all 
events, serve to show what a many-sided man 
Mr. Barratt was, what a large and keen out- 
look he had upon life, what he thought about 
certain business problems, and with what 
tenacity he he id to his convictions, which 
were immutable. As nearly as possible, 
what follows is set down in Mr. Barratt's own 

Tottenham Court Road in the "Roaring 
Forties, " 

1 was born, as was my father 
before me, in a house that 
stood on a site which is to* 
day very many times more 
than covered by Messrs. 
Maple and Co/s furniture 
shops, at the top of Tot- 
tenham Court Road. My 
earliest recollections of 
the neighbourhood are 
of houses with ample 
gardens and open fields 
stretching away beyond 
in the direction of Hamp- 
stead. It was a semi-rural 
residential district, though 
even in those days there 
were premonitory indications 
of a future furniture-dealing 


by LiOOglC 

Schools and Schools, 
My first school was in 
Camden Town; my 
last the school of experience } in which I 
matriculated early and never ceased to learn. 
I am learning now ; my masters are the 
public, and even in my veteran days they 
occasionally accord me honourable mention, 
What I picked up in the way of scholarship 
at that Camden Town academy I forget ; 
just the rudiments and a little more, I sup- 
pose. Some of rny schoolmates I can recall 
with a good deal of pleasure. Some have 
risen to eminence, some have long been 
associated with me in business j the rest are 
scattered and gone. 

One little incident of the Camden Town 
school is worth mentioning. There was one 
boy who showed a real genius for drawing, 
and I struck up a close friendship with him. 
His name was Matt Morgan, in later years to 
become famous as an artist in black and white 
and the editor of that most daring of satirical 



journals, The Tomahawk. He was fond of 
drawing caricatures of the boys he didn't 
like, and one day he showed me one of the 
master himself, whom he disliked most of all. 
It was irresistibly funny, and we were laugh- 
ing over it behind our desk when the master 
suddenly pounced upon us, knocked our heads 
violently together, and confiscated the draw- 
ing. Thus was art knocked into me at an 
early age, and the taste has remained with 
me ever since, though, unfortunately — or 
fortunately, as one may be disposed to think — 
taste did not carry with it the executive 



My own starting-point was not exactly at 
the bottom ; still, it was not high enough up 
to make me feel giddy. And for that I have 
always been thankful, for the worst of all 
starting-points are those right away up, to 
which you have been lifted without having 
had the experience of the actual climb for 
yourself. On my school-days coming to an 
end, in my fifteenth year, I entered a mer- 
chant's office, proud as Lucifer on the mag- 
nificent salary of four shillings a week ; and 
this was all I received until later on, when I 
became indentured as a clerk. Fancy being 
indentured as a clerk in these days ! 

I did not do much climbing during that 
part of my career. It was all dead level, 
without joy or hope or prospect ; and when 
one day my principal came to me and said, 
" Thomas, I think you know too much," I 
quite agreed that I knew more than was 
necessary for his business, and began to 
look around for stepping-stones, presently 
finding myself installed in the office of Messrs. 
Ellis and Hales, general merchants— so 
general, in fact, that they carried almost 
every article of merchandise that could be 
thought of, with one exception. That ex- 
ception, curious to say, was soap. Here I 
acquired a wider experience and a bigger 
salary ; but the climbing was not yet. It 
was more dead level ; everything cut and 
dried and done to order ; no responsibilities 
worthy the name. Of course I got to know 
a lot about commodities of one kind and 
another, but I still failed to get hold of the 
right end of the business stick, and I began 
to grow impatient. Then, as luck would 
have it, 1 heard of an opening in connection 
with soap — Pears' soap. I took that open- 
ing, plunged into it eagerly, and there I 
found a real starting-point, for the business 
was one that was just then in need of a 
climber. It was in the position of the Duke 
of York's men when they were half-way up — 

that is, " neither up nor down." It proved 
to be my opportunity. 

"He Had His Fears." 

The Pears business, which dated from 
1789, was then in the hands of Mr. Francis 
Pears, grandson of the founder of the under- 
taking. The soapworks were at Isleworth; 
the office and headquarters at a small shop 
in Great Russell Street, near the British 
Museum. I was installed in the shop to 
assist in the business generally, and kept the 
books, handled the correspondence, attended 
to calling customers, and on certain days 
travelled from town to town effecting sales. 
Here at last I found something worth doing. 
Here was a business with possibilities. Up 
to that time old-fashioned methods had pre- 
vailed, and there had been little or no attempt 
to get into the quickening current of the time. 
I was eager to alter all this. Convinced as 
I was that what we had to offer was a good, 
honest article, deserving of any popularity 
that effort, energy, and publicity could obtain 
for it, I conceived the idea of a bold scheme 
of advertising it ; but how was I to inspire 
the proprietor with the faith that was in 
myself ? That was the difficulty. But I 
was patient and tactful, and won the confi- 
dence of Mr. Pears so far as to induce him to 
concede that my intentions were admirable 
and my energies undoubted, but when it 
came to " counting the cost " it was a different 
matter. He had his fears. 

Little by little, however, I prevailed upon 
him to venture more than ths fifty pounds 
or sixty pounds a year — never more than 
eighty pounds — which had previously sufficed 
him for publicity. Sometimes my advertising 
suggestions were acted upon ; often they 
were not. Mr. Pears confessed his inability 
to follow my ideas ; he could not see how 
we wen* even to get our money back, much 
less to make more by it. He was a grand 
old man in a grand old way, but could not be 
made to understand the art of advertising. 
" You may be right," he used to say, " but 
I have my fears." So, with the idea of 
making sure of something for himself for his 
old age while yet there was any business left to 
realize upon, he went out of the firm in 1875, 
leaving four thousand pounds in the concern as 
a loan. Fortunately for himself, and still more 
fortunately for the members of the new firm, 
Thos. J. Barratt and Andrew Pear?, Mr. Francis 
Pears lived to see his nightmare dreams turned 
to realities of profit and delight. 

An American Experience. 
In the world -campaign upon which 


" my reminiscences:' 


I embarked when I had gathered the reins 
of management into my own hands, I made 
it my first aim to get a firm hold of the 
American market, and set sail for the other 
side of the Atlantic with that intention. 
Alter studying the trade situation for a time 
and getting to know something of American 
people and American methods, I saw that 
what the product I represented stood most 
in need of was a great and striking testimonial 
from some man prominently in the public 
eye and in whom the country had full 
confidence. That seemed to me the basis of 
sound advertising. But to whom should I 
apply ? I thought of President Grant, of the 
Governor of New York, of some of the heroes of 
the Civil War, but at length came to the con- 
clusion that the man whose words carried 
most weight was the celebrated preacher and 
lecturer, Henry Ward Beecher. 

Thus it came about that one winter's 
night, in the teeth of a blinding snowfall, 
I set out for the great divine's home in 
Brooklyn. It was with extreme difficulty that 
I made my way, and when at last I did find 
myself on the threshold of the Beecher abode 
a great surprise awaited me. I was shown 
immediately into the drawing-room, where, to 
my consternation, Mr. and Mrs. Beecher were 
entertaining guests. This was not the recep- 
tion I had looked for. I did not know how to 
explain ; indeed, it was impossible to explain 
my mission. Perhaps, as they shook my hand 
warmly, they took me for a visiting English 
preacher or writer. I confess I felt mighty 
uncomfortable. Nevertheless, I resolved to 
stay them all out and see Mr. Beecher alone 
at all hazards. It taxed my tactfulness to the 
utmost to bring this about, but by the time 
he led me into his library and motioned me 
to a chair I was braced for the occasion. He 
himself sat down before an open desk. " What 

can I do for you, Mr. ? " He paused. 

" Barratt," I said. " Mr. Barratt of London, 
representing Pears' Soap." 

It is not surprising that Mr. Beecher's face 
underwent a sudden change. Nevertheless, 
he listened amiably while I told him why I 
desired to make his acquaintance. I was 
expatiating on the merits of the article I was 
interested in, when he checked me with a 
laugh and wheeled round in his chair, seized 
a pen, and wrote on half a sheet of paper the 
famous testimonial beginning " If cleanliness 
is next to godliness, then," etc. 

This paper he handed to me saying he gave 
it to me with pleasure. I returned him 
hearty thanks, and with the precious 
document buttoned up in my pocket hurried 

to the office of the New York Herald. I 
asked to see the manager and showed him the 
words Mr. Beecher had written. " I want," 
I said, " to have this reproduced in facsimile 
on the front page of the Herald " ; but 
although in this instance I did not get my 
wish I prevailed with the rest of the American 
Press, and thousands of pounds were spent 
upon facsimiles of the celebrated preacher's 

The Inner History of the "Bubbles" Picture. 

When Sir John Millais painted " Babbles " 
he had no idea of the picture ever being used 
for trade advertising purposes, and I can well 
understand that when he saw ths first poster 
reproduction of this in association with the 
name of Pears his pride was somewhat 
shocked. To me, however, advertising is as 
serious a calling as that of art itself, so long 
as it is kept within the lines of veracity and 
confines itself to honestly announcing an 
honest article ; and I saw no degradation to 
Art in the use to which I put this famous 
picture. Millais had sold " Bubbles " originally 
to Sir William Ingram, and must have known 
that it was his intent to reproduce it for 
advertising the Illustrated London News. From 
that purpose to the purpose to which I 
ultimately put it was no great difference, 
I thought ; and I had the satisfaction 
subsequently of securing the willing services 
of other Royal Academicians and artists of 
great fame in a like connection. Even Sir 
John Millais himself was mollified when he 
saw how beautifully his work had been 
reproduced for the hoardings, and I was in 
treaty with him shortly before his death for 
further work. That the artist gained in fame 
by the process is indisputable. By my 
million-fold representations of " Bubbles " 
in one artistic form and another I contend 
that I have added immensely to the painter's 
popularity. I gave two thousand two hundred 
pounds for the picture ; on its reproductions 
I have spent — and profitably spent, I admit 
—a fortune. 

Going to Law. 

Among my schoolboy episodes may be 
counted a brief interval of experience in a 
lawyer's office. One morning the school- 
master, after a terrorizing call of " Silence ! " 
announced that a lawyer friend of his wanted 
a junior clerk — would any boy volunteer for 
the position ? Ready for any adventure, I 
at once spoke up in breathless assent, and 
was accepted. So I became a " limb of 
the law," and copied letters and wrote on 





for a few weeks ; thcn ; getting tired of 
John Doe and Richard Roe and other legal 
fictions and facts, I bade a final good-bye to 
Gray's Inn Square and went farther afield. 

But even this little adventure had its 
influence upon me ; ever after I had a sneak- 
ing regard for the kpl practit: jner, and in 

MY reminiscences:' 


profession, though myself never much of a 

It is worth mentioning, perhaps, in this 
association, that in the early days of my 
Pears partnership, on a certain occasion when 
capital was low and ways and means were not 
too easy, I applied to a lawyer for a temporary 
loan of a few hundred pounds, and, although 
we were strangers to each other, my applica- 
tion was readily granted. " But what about 
security ? " I asked ; a point that gave me 
some concern. " Oh, your good, honest face 
is security enough for me," said the lawyer; 
and on the strength of that the transaction 
was completed, and a friendship sprang up 
which later years cemented and was con- 
tinued to the son and grandson of the dis- 
cerning lawyer. Whether or not he was at 
the time suffering from distorted vision, or 
my truculent gaze overbore him, need not 
now be discussed, seeing that the sequel was 
so thoroughly satisfactory. 

By the way, the late Sir Frank Lockwood, 
a particular friend of mine, once remarked to 
me that he believed in the long ago there had 
been an eminent Old Bailey judge of the name 
of Barratt: " Perhaps an ancestor/' suggested 
the worthy K.C., with a merry twinkle of the 
eye. Some time after this, though far from 
being a pedigree enthusiast, I got a searcher 
to look through the Old Bailey records, and 
much was my amusement when it was 
reported to me that the only person of the 
name of Barratt to be discovered among the 
musty archives was one who had been hanged 
in front of Newgate. I often related this 
story for the benefit of boastful ancestor- 

Hauled Up at Bow Street. 

Once, and once only, did I get into the hands 
of the police, and that was when I had to 
appear at Bow Street to answer a charge of 
assault with violence. The circumstances 
were peculiar. Going home one night from 
the theatre, the sounds of a woman's screams 
aroused my attention as I passed through one 
of the by-streets. A man was beating his 
*ife brutally in the road. Without stopping 
to think of consequences, I rushed to the 
rescue of the woman, and hardly had I 
reached the scene when I found myself put 
upon my own defence, for the hulking ruffian 
turned on me savagely, obviously confident 
of making " short work " of the young fool 
who had thus recklessly presumed to interfere 
between man and wife. I wanted some- 
thing, did I ? Well, I should have it. And 
the fellow " sailed in " with his great fists ; 

Vol. xlviiL-33. 

but I had the good fortune to know some- 
thing about boxing, and in a very few seconds 
that wife-beater was so badly punished that 
the wife herself, damaged as she was, joined 
forces with her husband, and when the police 
came along and saw the mischief which had 
been done, while one. blue-coat picked up the 
prostrate husband and another attended to 
the shrieking wife, I, the peacemaker, was 
arrested as the prime offender, and not until 
the case came before the Bow Street magis- 
trate was the tangle cleared up ; and then 
the only punishment meted out to me was of 
a wholly complimentary character. 

Where Does Advertising Begin— or End? 

Apropos of some remarks by Lord North- 
cliffe to a gathering of advertising men, I 
wrote : — 

In resuscitating our ancient friend, 
Rameses II., and holding him up as an ex- 
ample of man's inborn tendency to advertise 
— either himself or something he is interested 
in — the speaker opened up a vast and wonder- 
ful field of speculation. Advertising, of 
course, had its beginning on the personal side 
in the morning of the world. Nature herself 
set man the example. The advertising lure 
is on all created things — on the leaves of the 
trees, the flowers of the gardens, the plumage 
of the bird, the dress and decoration of man 
or woman — the shine of a hat or a boot, the 
rustle of a robe, the flash of a diamond, the 
set of the hair, the twist of a moustache. 
Whatever a man specially interests himself in, 
that thing he wants to advertise, whether it 
be an empire or a personality, a motor-car or 
a publication. I went into advertising my- 
self in order to make a business worth talking 
about and patronizing, of a business that was 
very small — small but good and sound. And 
here I may remark that, without the good and 
sound basis, advertising can never come to 
anything very great. If you have got that 
foundation you may blaze away as hard as 
you like — or can. Still, in blazing away in 
advertising one's fingers are apt to get burnt 
unless due precautions are taken and some 
rational system is adopted. In nothing is 
haphazard more fatal. Many people imagine 
that advertising, and especially the invention 
of advertising ideas, is the simplest thing in 
the world. I am hearing from such people 
every day with suggestions and drawings and 
what not, mostly elaborately worked out ; 
but from all this mass of the supposed balm 
of Gilead — the crystal drop from the Pierian 
spring — not a whole year of three hundred 
and sixty-five days brings me any sign of 



the master-flash of genius. No, you have to 
think from the inside about these things ; 
your ideas have to reflect your aims, your 
resources, your knowledge of what has "gone 
before/' your own particular play of fancy, 
or your own stock of facts. The man outside 
cannot realize these things. I have had 
visits of " all sorts and conditions " of pur- 
veyors of advertising notions — from poets and 
parsons, schoolboys, actresses, professors, 
and ladies of fashion — while the mother with 
the little boy who is the exact image of 
c< Bubbles," or a little nicer, is never long 
absent from our portals. It is not so much 
an absence of good ideas outside as the 
necessity of the melting-pot of special 
experience through which to pass them 
before they can become of real utility. 

Who Pays the Cost of Advertising ? 

Certainly not the consumer; certainly not 
the retailer. Here is the real truth of the 
matter. Money wisely spent in advertising 
increases sales and profits to such an extent 
that sufficient capital is provided for the 
operation of economies naturally resulting 
from buying and manufacturing in larger 
quantities. The bigger the volume of trade 
the cheaper is the relative production. In 
fact, as all leading advertisers know, produc- 
tion is cheapened in a much greater degree 
by advertising than is represented by the 
money spent in advertising. Were it 
otherwise there would be no use in adver- 

Much as we advertisers love the news- 
papers, to whose revenues we contribute so 
handsomely, we only perform this service 
because we get more out of the publicity 
they give us than they get out of us — with 
occasional exceptions, perhaps, which are 
soon rectified. But what is of still greater 
importance is that, in ratio with the cheapening 
of production, there is a cheapening of the 
advertised article to the public. 

Scientific Experiences. 

As a young man I was one of a small band 
of enthusiasts who used to meet for scientific 
reunions at the rooms in Piccadilly of the late 
Mr. Hardwick, founder, and for many years 
editor, of Science Gossip. One of the results 
of these gatherings was the starting of the 
Quekett Club for working microscopists, of 
which I was an original member. I pursued 
this science diligently in my leisure moments, 
became a Fellow of the Royal Microscopical 
Society, and in course of time accumulated 

a valuable collection of microscopical instru- 
ments and objects. 

Another branch of science that deeply 
interested me was Chemistry. My studies in 
this direction, at first undertaken out of a 
real love of the subject, were later turned 
to useful account in connection with my 
business, for much depends upon the right 
selection and appraising of saponaceous 
components in the successful manufacture U 
a high-class soap of historic formula. 

In many ways, indeed, my chemical 
knowledge was of use to me, and once led to 
a scene in a court of law. I was on the jury. 
A learned counsel was cross-examining a 
witness in regard to the quality of a certain 
kind of copperas, which happened to be the 
subject in dispute. " Now, tell me," said the 
barrister, " how much of actual copper was 
there in this stuff that was sold as copperas ? " 
The witness was dumbfounded and could not 
answer, and the question was repeated. This 
was more than I could stand, and jumping 
up from my seat, I begged to inform the 
cross-examiner that copper had nothing 
whatever to do with copperas. Counr-cl 
resented my interruption and pooh-poohed 
my observation, but finding I would not 
yield my point he appealed to the judge, who 
himself had to refer to an authority before he 
could dispose of the puzzle. When it was 
ultimately discovered that I was correct it 
was somewhat reluctantly conceded that 
this was so, but in a way that seemed to 
warn me that, though I was let off this time, 
I had better not repeat this sort of thing; 
and it was many a long year before I was 
asked to sit on a jury again. 

Present-Day Business Conditions. 
Some people imagine that in these times 
business is a terrible affair of hustle-bustle, 
bounce, and boom. These people do not see 
into the heart of things. I know what I am 
talking about when I say that business was 
never more orderly than now, never more 
honest, never better conducted, never so rich 
in opportunities for those who have business 
intelligence and the right capacity and 
conscience for work. True, our business pace 
has been wonderfully increased, our business 
methods have been greatly intensified, our 
business aids immensely multiplied, and 
our money-making propensities in nowise 
slackened ; but with all the flutter and fuss 
of steam, electricity, telegraphy, aviation, 
motoring, and the rest, the winning qualities 
in business are the same now as when the 
De la Poles, the Whittingtcns, the Greshams, 

« my reminiscences:' 



the Denisons^ and oth^r commercial and always seems a mighty whirl of ad- 
financial magnates of former times rose to vance upon the past ; but the fonvard- 
peatness. Conditions change, but not looking habit is ths mental attitude to 
human nature , The present of any period encourage. 

, u> | 4 -- Original from 





5 '".' U.v # 


No. VI. 


Mf fff»fi& %& m m %$ m m g w* yBsssmm 

P- G Wxlehouse 

IffzistiateJ ly Siffred £ete 

Roland Bloke was a young 
clerk in a provincial aeed- 
mercnant s office when lie 
acquired a large fortune 
by most unexpected means. 
He is engaged, in tke fol- 
lowing instalment of thia 
entertaining series, in tke 
final adventure of his efforts 
to spend it. 

II AT do you mean— you 
can't marry him after all ? 
After all what ? Whv can't 
you marry him ? You are 
perfectly childish/' 

Lord Evenwood's gentle 
voire, which had in its time 
lulled the House of Peers to slumber more 
often than any voice ever heard in the Gilded 
Chamber, had in it a note of unwonted but 
quite justifiable irritation. If there was one 
thing more than another that Lord Even- 
wood disliked j it was any interference with 
arrangements already made* 

" Tlie man/* he continued, i£ is not 
unsightly. The man is not conspicuously 
vulgar. The man does not eat peas with his 
knife. The man pronounces his aitches with 
meticulous care and accuracy, ihe man, 
moreover, is worth rather more than a 
quarter of a million pounds. I repeat, you 
are childish," 

" Yes , I know he's a very decent little 
chap, father," said Lady Eva. " It's not 
that at all." 

14 1 should be gratified, then., to hear what, 
in your opinion, it is." 

" Well, do you think I could be happy with 
him?" ' 

Lady Kim buck gave tongue. She was 
Lord Even wood's sister. She spent a very 
happy widowhood interfering in the affairs 
of the various branches of her family. 

" We're not asking you to be happy. You 
have such odd 1 ideas of happiness. Your idea 
of happiness is to be married to your cousin 
Gerry, whose only visible means of support, 
so far as I can gather, is the four hundred a 
year which he draws as a member for a 
constituency which has every intention of 
throwing him out at the next election." 

Lady Eva blushed. Lady Kimbuck's 
faculty for nosing out the secrets of her fahiily 
had made her justly disliked from the Hebrides 
to Southern Cornwall. 

C( Young 0*Rion is not to be thought of," 
said Lord Even wood, firmly* (l Not for an 
instant. Apart from anything else, his 
politics are all wrong. Moreover, you are 
engaged to this Mr, Bleke, ft is a sucred 
responsibility not lightly to be evaded. You 
cannot pledge your word one day to enter 
upon the most solemn contract known to — ah 
— the civilized world, and break it the next. 
It is not fair to the man, It is not fair to 
me. You know that all I live for is to see 
you comfortably settled. If I could myself 
do anything" tor yoy^thc matter would be 
diffAnwflEKSItf QfeidftDiminable land taxes 



and Bio wick— especially Bio wick — no, no, it*s " Especially/' said Lady Kimbuck, " into 
out of the question. You will be very sorry a family like ours. What with tilowitk's 
if you do anything foolish. I can assure you scandal , and that shocking business of your 
that Roland Blekes arc not to be found— ah— grandfather and the .cirrus- woman, to say- 
on every bush. Men are extremely shy of nothing of . v'our^ pror father T s .trouble in 

' ™ *-^ I ■ ■ i ■ i X- 1 K 1 1 1 . tTjt*l i t- ii r .!■ J. I ■" I 1 1 1* Jlk 

marrying now* 

sh. Men are extreme I v -tiv of nothing of vour poor lather's 

radays » 'd^t^lJMBSITrOf MICHIGAN 



" Thank you, Sophia/' interrupted Lord 
Evenwood, hurriedly. " It is unnecessary to 
go into all that now. Suffice it that there are 
adequate reasons, apart from all moral 
obligations, why Eva should not break her 
word to Mr. Bleke. ,, 

Lady Kimbuck's encyclopaedic grip of the 
family annals was a source of the utmost 
discomfort to her relatives. It was known 
that more than one firm of publishers had made 
her tempting offers for her reminiscences, and 
the family looked on like nervous spectators 
at a battle while Cupidity fought its ceaseless 
fight with Laziness ; for the Evenwood family 
had at various times and in various ways 
stimulated the circulation of the evening 
papers. Most of them were living down 
something, and it was Lady Kimbuck's habit, 
when thwarted in her lightest whim, to retire 
to her boudoir and announce that she was not 
to be disturbed, as she was at last making a 
start on her book. Abject surrender followed 
on the instant. 

At this point in the discussion she folded 
up her crochet- work and rose. 

" It is absolutely necessary for you, my 
dear, to make a good match, or you will all 
be ruined. I, of course, can always support 
my declining years with literary work, but — " 

Lady Eva groaned. Against this last argu- 
ment there was no appeal. 

Lady Kimbuck patted her affectionately 
on the shoulder. 

" There, run along now/' she said. " I 
dare say you've got a headache or something 
that made you say a lot of foolish things you 
didn't mean. Go down to the drawing-room. 
I expect Mr. Bleke is waiting there to say 
good night to you. I am sure he must be 
getting quite impatient." 

Down in the drawing-room Roland Bleke 
was hoping against hope that Lady Eva's 
prolonged absence might be due to the fact 
that she had gone to bed with a headache, 
and that he might escape the nightly interview 
which he so dreaded. 

Reviewing his career, as he sat there, Roland 
came to the conclusion that women had the 
knack of affecting him with a form of tem- 
porary insanity. They temporarily changed 
his whole nature. They made him feel for a 
brief while that he was a dashing young man, 
capable of the highest flights of love. It 
was only later that the reaction came and he 
realized that he was nothing of the sort. At 
heart he was afraid of women, and in the entire 
list of the women of whom he had been afraid 
he could not find one who had terrified him so 
much as Lady Eva Blyton. 

Other women — notably Maraquita, now 
happily helping to direct the destinies of 
Paranoya — had frightened him by their indi- 
viduality. Lady Eva frightened him both by 
her individuality and the atmosphere of 
aristocratic exclusiveness which she conveyed. 
He had no idea whatever of what was the 
proper procedure for a man engaged to the 
daughter of an earl. Daughters of earls had 
been to him till now mere names in the 
society columns of the morning paper. The 
very rules of the game were beyond him. He 
felt like a confirmed Association footballer 
suddenly called upon to play in an inter- 
national Rugby match. 

All along, from the very moment when — to 
his unbounded astonishment — she had 
accepted him, he had known that he was 
making a mistake ; but he never realized it 
with such painful clearness as he did this 
evening. He was filled with a sort of blind 
terror. He cursed the fate which had taken 
him to the charity bazaar at which he had 
first come under the notice of Lady Kimbuck. 
The fatuous snobbishness which had made 
him leap at her invitation to spend a few days 
at Evenwood Towers he regretted ; but for 
that he blamed himself less. Further acquaint- 
ance with Lady Kimbuck had convinced him 
that if she had wanted him she would have 
got him somehow, whether he had accepted 
or refused. 

What he really blamed himself for was his 
mad proposal. There had been no need for 
it. True, Lady Eva had created a riot of 
burning emotions in his breast from the 
moment when they met ; but he should have 
had the sense to realize that she was not the 
right mate for him, even though he might 
have a quarter of a million tucked away in 
gilt-edged securities. Their lives could not 
possibly mix. He was a commonplace 
young man with a fondness for the pleasures 
of " the people. He liked cheap papers, 
picture-palaces, and Association football. 
Merely to think of Association football in 
connection with her was enough to make the 
folly of his conduct clear. He ought to have 
been content to worship her from afar as 
some inaccessible goddess. 

A light step outside the door made his 
heart stop beating. 

" I've just looked in to say good night, Mr. — 
er — Roland," she said, holding out her hand. 
" Do excuse me. I've got such a headache." 

" Oh, yes ; rather. I'm awfully sorry." 

If there was one person in the world Roland 
despised and hated at that moment, it was 

himseii. Sin IFMOIGAN 



' " Are you going out with the guns to- 
morrow ? " asked Lady Eva, languidly. 

" Oh, * yes ; rather. I mean, no. I'm 
afraid I don't shoot." 

The back of his neck began to glow. He 
had no illusions about himself. He was the 
biggest ass in Christendom. 

" Perhaps you'd like to play a round of 
golf, then ? " 

" Oh, yes ; rather. I mean, no." There 
it was again, that awful phrase. He was 
certain he had not intended to utter it. She 
must be thinking him a perfect lunatic. " I 
don't play golf." 

They stood looking at each other for a 
moment. It seemed to Roland that her gaze 
was partly contemptuous, partly pitying. 
He longed to tell her that, though she had 
happened to pick on his weak points in the 
realm of sport, there were things he could do. 
An insane desire came upon him to babble 
about his school football team. Should he 
ask her to feel his quite respectable biceps ? 

" Never mind," she said, kindly. " I 
dare say we shall think of something to amuse 

She held out her hand again. He took it 
in his for the briefest possible instant, pain- 
fully conscious the while that his own hand 
was clammy from the emotion through which 
he had been passing. 

" Good night." 

" Good night." 

Thank Heaven she was gone. That let him 
out for another twelve hours at least. 

A quarter of an hour later found Roland 
still sitting where she had left him, his head 
in his hands. The groan of an overwrought 
soul escaped him. 

"I can't do it!" 

He sprang to his feet. 

" I won't do it ! " 

A smooth voice from behind him spoke. 

" I think you are quite right, sir — if I may 
make the remark." 

Rolqnd had hardly ever been so startled in 
his life. In the first place, he was not aware 
of having uttered his thoughts aloud ; in the 
second, he had imagined that he was alone in 
the room. And so, a moment before, he had 
been. But the owner of the voice possessed, 
among other qualities, the cat-like faculty of 
entering a room perfectly noiselessly — a fact 
which had won for him, in the course of a 
long career in the service of the best 
families, the flattering position of star 
witness in a number of England's raciest 
divorce cases. 

Mr. Teal, the butler — for it was no less a 
celebrity who had broken in on Roland's 
reverie — was a long, thin man of a somewhat 
priestly cast of countenance. He lacked that 
air of reproving hauteur which many butlers 
possess, and it was for this reason that Roland 
had felt drawn to him during the black days 
of his stay at Evenwood Towers. Teal had 
been uncommonly nice to him on the whole. 
He had seemed to Roland, stricken by inter- 
views with his host and Lady Kimbuck, the 
only human thing in the place. 

He liked Teal. On the other hand, Teal 
was certainly taking a liberty. He could, if 
he so pleased, tell Teal to go to the devil. 
Technically he had the right to freeze Teal 
with a look. 

He did neither of these things. He was 
feeling very lonely and very forlorn in a 
strange and depressing world, and Teal's 
voice and manner were soothing. 

" Hearing you speak, and seeing nobody 
else in the room," went on the butler, " I 
thought for a moment that you were 
addressing me." 

This was not true, and Roland knew it was 
not true. Instinct told him that Teal knew 
that he knew it was not true ; but he did not 
press the point. 

" What do you mean — you think I am 
quite right ? " he said. " You don't know 
what I was thinking about." 

Teal smiled indulgently. 

" On the contrary, sir. A child could have 
guessed it. Yoii have just come to the 
decision — in my opinion a thoroughly sensible 
one — that your engagement to her ladyship 
cannot be allowed to go on. You are quite 
right, sir. It won't do." 

Personal magnetism covers a multitude of 
sins. Roland was perfectly well aware that 
he ought not to be standing here chatting 
over his and Lady Eva's intimate affairs 
with a butler ; but such was Teal's magnetism 
that he was quite unable to do the right thing 
and tell him to mind his own business. 
" Teal, you forget yourself," would have 
covered the situation. Roland, however, was 
physically incapable of saying, " Teal, you 
forget yourself." The bird knows all the 
time that he ought not to stand talking, to 
the snake, but he is incapable of ending the 
conversation. Roland was conscious of/ a 
momentary wish that he was the sort of man 
who could tell butlers that they forgot them- 
selves. But then that sort of man would 
never be in this sort of trouble. The " Teal- 
you-forget-yourself '' type of man would 
be a first-el&ss shot, a plus goiter, and would 



certainly consider himself extremely lucky to 
be engaged to Lady Eva. 

" The question is," went on Mr. Teal, " how 
are we to break it off ? " 

Roland felt that, as he had sinned against 
all the decencies in allowing the butler to 
discuss his affairs with him, he might just as 
well go the whole hog and allow the discussion 
to run its course. And it was an undeniable 
relief to talk about the infernal thing to 

He nodded gloomily and committed himself. 
Teal resumed his remarks with the gusto of a 

" It's not an easy thing to do gracefully, sir ; 
believe me, it isn't. And it's got to be done 
gracefully, or not at all. You can't go to her 
ladyship and say, ' It's all off, and so am I,' 
and catch the next train for London. The 
rupture must be of her ladyship's making. 
If some fact, some disgraceful information, 
concerning you were to come to her ladyship's 
ears, that would be a simple way out of the 

He eyed Roland meditatively. 

" If, for instance, you had ever been in 
jail, sir ! " 

" Well, I haven't." 

" No offence intended, sir, I'm sure. I 
merely remembered that you had made a 
great deal of money very quickly. My expe- 
rience of gentlemen who have made a great 
deal of money very quickly is that they have 
generally done their bit of time. But, of 

course, if you Let me think. Do you 

drink, sir ? " 

" No." 

Mr. Teal sighed. Roland could not help 
feeling that he was disappointing the old 
man a good deal. 

" You do not, I suppose, chance to have a 
past ? " asked Mr. Teal, not very hopefully. 
" I use the word in its technical sense. A 
deserted wife ? Some poor creature you have 
treated shamefully ? " 

At the risk of sinking still farther in the 
butler's esteem, Roland was compelled to 
answer in the negative. 

" I was afraid not," said Mr. Teal, shaking 
his head. " Thinking it all over yesterday, 
I said to myself, ' I'm afraid he wouldn't 
have one,' You don't look like the sort of 
gentleman who had done much with his 

" Thinking it over ? " 

44 Not on your account, sir," explained Mr. 
Teal. " On the family's. I disapproved of 
this match from the first. A man who has 
served a family as long as I have had the 

honour of serving his lordship's comes to 
entertain a high regard for the family prestige. 
And, with no offence to yourself, sir, this 
would not have done." 

" Well, it looks as if it would have to do," 
said Roland, gloomily. " I can't see any way 
out of it." 

" I can, sir. My niece at Aldershot." 

Mr. Teal wagged his head at him with a 
kind of priestly archness. 

" You cannot have forgotten my niece at 
Aldershot ? " 

Roland stared at him dumbly. It was like a 
line out of a melodrama. He feared, first for 
his own, then for the butler's sanity. The 
latter was smiling gently, as one who sees 
light in a difficult situation. 

44 I've never been at Aldershot in my life." 

44 For our purposes you have, sir. But I'm 
afraid I am puzzling you. Let me explain. 
I've got a niece over at Aldershot. I am sure 
she would do it for a consideration." 

44 Do what ? " 

44 Be your past, sir. Dyed yellow hair, 
sir," he went on, with enthusiasm, 44 done all 
frizzy. You couldn't find a better if you tried 
for a twelvemonth." 

44 But, I say ! " 

44 1 suppose a hundred wouldn't hurt 


Well, no, I suppose not ; but- 

" Then put the whole thing in my hands, sir. 
I'll ask leave off to-morrow and pop over and 
see her. I'll arrange for her to come here 
the day after to see you. Leave it all to me. 
To-night you must write the letters." 

44 Letters ? " 

44 Naturally there would be letters, sir. It 
is an inseparable feature of these cases." 

44 Do you mean that I have got to write to 
her ? But I shouldn't know what to say. I've 
never seen her." 

44 That will be quite all right, sir, if you place 
yourself in my hands. I will come to your room 
after everybody's gone to bed and help you 
write those letters. You have some note- 
paper with your own address on it ? Then 
it will all be perfectly simple." 

When, some hours later, he read over the 
ten or twelve exceedingly passionate epistles 
which, with the butler's assistance, he had 
succeeded in writing to Miss Maud Chilvers, 
Roland came to the conclusion that there 
must have been a time when Mr. Teal was a 
good deal less respectable than he appeared to 
be at present. Byronic was the only adjective 
applicable to his collaborator's style of 
amatory composition, in every letter there 






Vol. dviiL-34, 1 1 ki iw CDC! TV fl C Ml f H 




were passages against which Roland had felt 
compelled to make a modest protest. 

" c A thousand kisses on your lovely rose- 
bud of a mouth.' Don't you think that is a 
little too warmly coloured ? And, ' I am 
languishing for the pressure of your ivory 
arms about my neck and the sweep of your 
silken hair against my cheek.' What I mean 
is — well, what about it, you know ? " 

" The phrases," said Mr. Teal, not without 
a touch of displeasure, " to which you take 
exception are taken bodily from correspon- 
dence (which I happened to have the advantage 
of perusing) addressed by the late Lord 
Evenwood to Animalcula, Queen of the High 
Wire at Astley's Circus. His lordship, I 
may add, was considered an authority in 
these matters." 

Roland criticized no more. He handed 
over the letters, which, at Mr. Teal's direc- 
tion, he had headed with various dates, 
covering roughly a period of about two 
months antecedent to his arrival at the 

" That," Mr. Teal explained, " will make 
your conduct definitely unpardonable. With 
this woman's kisses hot upon your lips " — 
Mr. Teal was still slightly aglow with the fire 
of inspiration — "you have the effrontery 
to come here and offer yourself to her 

With Roland's timid suggestion that it 
was perhaps a mistake to overdo the 
atmosphere, the butler found himself unable 
to agree. 

"You can't make yourself out too bad. 
If you don't 4 pitch it hot and strong, her 
ladyship might quite likely forgive you. 
Then where would you be ? " 

Miss Maud Chilvers, of Aldershot, burst 
into Roland's life like one of the shells of her 
native heath two days later at about five in 
the afternoon. 

It was an entrance which any stage- 
manager might have been proud of having 
arranged. The lighting, the grouping, the 
lead-up — all were perfect. The family had 
just finished tea in the long drawing-room. 
Lady Kimbuck was crocheting, Lord Even- 
wood dozing, Lady Eva reading, and Roland 
thinking. A peaceful scene. 

A soft, rippling murmur, scarcely to be 
reckoned a snore, had just proceeded from 
Lord Evenwood's parted lips, when the door 
opened, and Teal announced : — 

" Miss Chilvers." 

Roland stiffened in his chair. Now that 
the ghastly moment had come, he felt too 

he felt 

petrified with fear even to act the little part 
in which he had been diligently rehearsed by 
the obliging Mr. Teal. He simply sat and 
did nothing. 

It was speedily made clear to him that Miss 
Chilvers would do all the actual doing that 
was necessary. The butler had drawn no 
false picture of her personal appearance. 
Dyed yellow hair done all frizzy was but one 
facet of her many-sided impossibilities. In 
the serene surroundings of the long drawing- 
room she looked more unspeakable than 
Roland had ever imagined her. With such 
a leading lady his drama could not fail of 
success. He should have been pleased ; he 
was merely appalled. The thing might have 
a happy ending, but while it lasted it was 
going to be terrible. 

She had a flatteringly attentive reception- 
Nobody failed to notice her. Lord Evenwood 
woke with a start, and stared at her as if she 
had been some ghost from his trouble of 
'eighty-five. Lady Eva's face expressed 
sheer amazement. Lady Kimbuck, laying 
down her crochet-work, took one look at the 
apparition, and instantly decided that one of 
her numerous erring relatives had been at it 
again. Of all the persons in the room she 
was possibly the only one completely 
cheerful. She was used to these situations 
and enjoyed them. Her mind, roaming 
into the past, recalled the night when her 
cousin Warminster had been pinked by a 
stiletto in his own drawing-room by a lady 
from South America. Happy days, happy 
days ! 

Lord Evenwood had by this time come to 
the conclusion that the festive Blowick must 
be responsible for this visitation. He rose 
with dignity. 

" To what are we ? " he began. 

Miss Chilvers, resolute young woman, had 
no intention of standing there while other 
people talked. She shook her gleaming head 
and burst into speech. 

" Oh, yes ; I know I've no right to be 
coming walking in here among a lot of perfect 
strangers at their teas, but what I say is, 
' Right's right and wrong's wrong all the 
world over,' and I may be poor, but I have 
my feelings. No, thank you, I won't sit 
down. I've not come for the week-end, I've 
come to say a few words, and when I've said 
them I'll go, and not before. A lady friend ' 
of mine happened to be reading her Daily 
Sketch the other day, and she said, ' Halloa, 
halloa ! ' and passed it on to me with her thumb 
on a picture which had under it that it was 
Lady Eva Blyton, who was engaged to be 






Original from 

A I 



married to Mr. Roland Bleke. And when I 
read that,/ said * Halloa, halloa ! ' too, I give 
you my word. And not being able to travel 
at once, owing to being prostrated with the 
shock, I came along to-day, just to have a 
look at Mr. Roland Blooming Bleke, and ask 
him if he's forgotten that he happens to be 
engaged to me. That's all. I know it's the 
sort of little thing that might slip any gentle- 
man's mind, but I thought it might be worth 
mentioning. So now ! " 

Roland, perspiring in the shadows at the 
far end of the room, felt that Miss Chilvers 
was overdoing it. There was no earthly need 
for all this sort of thing. Just a simple 
announcement of the engagement would 
have been quite sufficient. It was too 
obvious to him that his ally was tho- 
roughly enjoying herself. She had the centre 
of the stage, and did not intend lightly to 
relinquish it. 

" My good girl," said Lady Kimbuck," talk 
less and prove more. When did Mr. Bleke 
promise to marry you." 

" Oh, it's all right. I'm not expecting you 
to believe my word. I've got all the proofs 
you'll want. Here's his letters." 

Lady Kimbuck's eyes gleamed. She took 
the package eagerly. She never lost an oppor- 
tunity of reading compromising letters. She 
enjoyed them as literature, and there was 
never any knowing when they might come in 

" Roland," said Lady Eva, quietly, 
" haven't you anything to contribute to this 
conversation ? " 

Miss Chilvers clutched at her bodice. 
Cinema palaces were a passion with her, and 
she was up in the correct business. 

" Is he here ? In this room ? " 

Roland slunk from the shadows. 

" Mr. Bleke," said Lord Evenwood, sternly, 
" who is this woman ? " 

Roland uttered a kind of Strangled 

" Are these letters in your handwriting ? " 
asked Lady Kimbuck, almost cordially. She 
had seldom read better compromising letters 
in her life, and she was agreeably surprised 
that one whom she had always imagined a 
colourless stick should have been capable of 

Roland nodded. 

" Well, it's lucky you're rich," said Lady 
Kimbuck, philosophically. " What are you 
asking for these ? " she inquired of Miss 

" Exactly," said Lord Evenwood, relieved. 
" Precisely. Your sterling common sense is 

admirable, Sophia. You place the whole 
matter at once on a business-like footing." 

" Do you imagine for a moment " began 

Miss Chilvers, slowly. 

11 Yes," said Lady Kimbuck. " How 
much ? " 

Miss Chilvers sobbed. 

44 If I have lost him for ever " 

Lady Eva rose. 

44 But you haven't," she said, pleasantly. 
44 I wouldn't dream of standing in your way." 
She drew a ring from her finger, placed it on 
the table, and walked to the door. 

44 1 am not engaged to Mr. Bleke," she said, 
as she reached it. 

Roland never knew quite how he had got 
away from the Towers. He had confused 
memories in which the principals of the 
drawing-room scene figured in various ways, 
all unpleasant. It was a portion of his fife 
on which he did not care to dwell. 

Safely back in his flat, however, he gradually 
recovered his normal spirits. Indeed, now 
that the tumult and the shouting had, so to 
speak, died, and he was free to take a broad 
view of his position, he felt distinctly happier 
than usual. That Lady Kimbuck had passed 
for ever from his life was enough in itself to 
make for gaiety. 

He was humming blithely one morning as 
he opened his letters ; outside the sky was blue 
and the sun shining. It was good to be alive. 

He read the first letter. The sky was 
still blue, the sun still shining. 

44 Dear Sir," it ran — 44 We have been 
instructed by our client, Miss Maud Chilvers, 
of the Goat and Compasses, Aldershot, to 
institute proceedings against you for breach 
of promise of marriage. In the event of your 
being desirous to avoid the expense and 
publicity of litigation, we are instructed to say 
that Miss Chilvers would be prepared to accept 
the sum of ten thousand pounds in settlement 
of her claim against you. We would further 
add that in support of her case our client has 
in her possession a number of letters written 
by yourself to her, all of which bear strong 
prima facie evidence of the alleged promise 
to marry ; and she will be able, in addition, 
to call as witnesses in support of her case the 
Earl of Evenwood, Lady Kimbuck, and Lady 
Eva Blyton, in whose presence, at a recent 
date, you acknowledged that you had promised 
to marry our client. 

44 Trusting that we may hear from you in 
the course of post, we are, dear sir, yours 
faithfully, Harrison, Harrison, Harrison, 





Photographs repreduccd by special permission of the American Museum oj Natural History, 

RECENT visitor to New York, 
after being shown everything 
of interest — from the Statue 
of Liberty to the Woolworth 
Building— declared with con- 
siderable emphasis that to 
him the most beautiful, the 
most fascinating, and the most wonderful 
" exhibit " was the bird-groups in the 
American Museum of Natural History. 
" There is nothing to compare with them," 
he said, " in any other country, and they 
should serve as a practical example to the 
authorities of every natural history museum 
throughout Europe." 

The visitor was quite right. The bird- 
groups of which New York is so justly proud 
are the result of wonderful patience and skill, 
marvellous regard to detail, and a knowledge 
of birds and bird-life gained by years of 
personal observation. To Mr. Frank M. 
Chapman, the Curator of Ornithology, belongs 
the honour of having originated the idea of 
these bird-groups, and also of having super- 
intended the carrying out of the work of 

Recently the present writer called on Mr. 
Chapman, and learned many interesting 
details regarding these groups of birds, which 
were designed to illustrate not only the 
habits, but also the haunts, or " habitats," 
of the species shown. " Each group," Mr. 
Chapman explained, " includes the nest, eggs, 
and young, besides the adult bird or birds, 
with a reproduction of from sixty to a hundred 
and sixty square feet of the nest's immediate 
surroundings. To this accurate and realistic 
representation of the home of the species is 
added a painting from nature of its habitat, 
the real foreground being connected with the 
painted background in such a manner that 
one often does not at first see where the 
former ends and the latter begins. The whole, 
therefore, gives an adequate conception of the 
nature of the country the birds inhabit and 
tjie conditions under which they live." 

That was Mr. Chapman's primary idea when 
these bird-groups first suggested themselves 
to him. It might be mentioned that the 
backgrounds referred to are not more or less 
fanciful sketches of the haunts of the birds 
associated with them, but they are careful 
studies from nature of definite localities, and 
therefore possess a geographical as well as an 
ornithological value. " When selecting sub- 
jects for treatment," Mr. Chapman continued, 
" an effort was made to include the birds 
of widely diversified types of country, in 
order that the series, as a whole, should por- 
tray not only the habitats of certain American 
birds, but America as well. From the 
Bahamas to the Gulf of St. Lawrence, from 
the Atlantic to the Pacific, localities are 
represented which show at least the more 
characteristic phases of our landscape. Some 
subjects were in near-by places and were easily 
visited ; others were in remote regions and 
were reached with more or less difficulty. 
Altogether it is estimated that about 65,000 
miles were travelled to secure the material on 
which these groups are based." 

Each group in the series, beginning with 
Bird Rock, in the Gulf of St. Lawrence, in 
1898, is the result of a special Museum 
expedition in charge of the Curator of Orni- 
thology (Mr. Chapman), accompanied by a 
" preparator " and an artist whose work it 
was to paint the backgrounds " on the spot." 

" After arriving at our destination," Mr. 
Chapman further explained, " and before 
securing specimens, the birds were first 
studied and photographed at short range 
from a specially-constructed umbrella-blind. 
This was sometimes placed in the very heart 
of the bird-community, as, for instance, with 
the flamingos and pelicans ; or even in the 
tree-tops, as with the egrets. At the same 
time the artist made studies on which to base 
the final background, as well as detailed 
colour sketches of leaf and blossom, while the 
' preparator ' collected the needed acces- 
sories, making casts or preserving vegetation 


2 JO 


NO- I . 



in various solutions as occasion required. When the 
field-work was concluded, the crates of branches, carefully- 
packed boxes of foliage y nests 3 birds 3 and photographic 
plates, sacks of earth and other material, according to 
the nature of the subject, were shipped to the Museum, 
subsequently to be prepared in the laboratories/' 

Naturally one of the most important features of these 
groups is the exact reproduction of the vegetation sur- 
rounding the habitats of the different birds selected. 
This work was placed in the hands of Mr, J. D. Figgens, 
Chief of the Museum's Department of Preparation , and 
that it was carried out in a very artistic and masterly 
way is proved by the groups themselves. Many a 
naturalist has marvelled at the faithful manner in which 
the minutest detail has been observed, and were the 
birds alive they might be forgiven for labouring under 
the impression that they were " at home/' Mr. Figgens 
reproduced the vegetation in wax, either from plaster 
casts of the original, or by careful duplication of the 
original itself, The colour of the leaves and vegetation 
generally was obtained by means of an air-brush or 
atomizer, by which the most delicate tints and textures 
were faithfully rendered. 

A very striking group is one showing a California 
cendor, with its single egg resting on the ledge of a rock 
(No. i). In viewing this group the visitor is supposed to 
ba in the condor's cave, from which he looks up the 
canyon. When the studies were made the cave was not 
occupied, a passing hunter having wantonly shot one of 
the birds on its perch on a neighbouring rockj its body 
falling into the river. 

" We made our studies for this group/' said Mr, Chap- 

man, " in Piru Canyon, some twenty miles north of the C n*Hr«fl-THK ukown pelica 





village of Piru and fifty miles south-east of 
Santa Barbara, where for many years a pair 
of birds had nested in a cave which pierced 
the vertical canyon, one hundred and fifty 
feet above the water* From this cave 
were taken the young condors now living 
in the National Zoological Park in Washing- 

The California condor some years ago was 
becoming so rare a bird that steps were taken 
to discover the reason, and after a little 
investigation it was shown that this was 
occasioned by its feeding on the poisoned 
carcasses of cattle exposed by ranchmen as 
bait for bears, panthers, and wolves. Since 
these animals have now become almost 
exterminated or gradually decreased poisoned 
meat is no longer employed, with the result 

that the California condor is once again 
holding its own, 

A group which might have been photo- 
graphed direct from nature — and in the 
reproduction there is nothing to show that it 
is not — is that which shows the brown pelicans 
on Pelican Island, Florida (No. 2). Pelican 
Island used to be a favourite resort for 
pleasure-seekers, and the visitors molested the 
pelicans so unmercifully— killing them and 
robbing their nests — that the famous colony 
was threatened with complete annihilation. 
But fortunately President Roosevelt came to 
the rescue, set aside Pelican Island 

as a 


Government reservation, and installed a 
warden to guard it during the nesting season* 
Only visitors who have secured a Government 
permit are now allowed to land on the island. 

The pelican — 
as the majority 
of readers are 
probably well 
aware — is a 
rather remark- 
able bird. For 
one thing, he is 
born "without a 
stitch on/' and, 
more over , for ten 
days he develops 
no clothes what- 
ever* At the end 
of that time, 
however, a 
downy plumage 
begins to appear 
which rapidly 
changes the 
scarecrow of a 
bird into a beau- 
tiful creature of 
snowy whiteness. 
This in turn 
changes to a soft 
brown, and at 
the age of about 
two months the 
plumage is fully 

The baby peli- 
cans are fed on 
predigested fish 
kindly supplied 
by the parent, 
the young birds 
three at a 






rfc *fc- 

JWwtfT 5 * 


stretch of palm-grown land which 
separates an Indian river from the 
ocean. They are bound for some 
favourite fishing-ground. Lower 
over the water is another line of 
birds returning from such a fishing 
trip, flying in single file, according 
to their custom* This group was 
made in 1905. It might be added 


thrusting their heads into their mother's 
mouth for the purpose. Afterwards the 
young pelicans go fishing on their own 
account, and frequently catch specimens of so 
great a size that it is impossible to swallow 
them whole. This, however, in no way 
disconcerts the intelligent bird, who swallows 
as much of th? fish as he is able and then sits 
down with the tail projecting f nun his mouth, 
patiently waiting for the head to digest. 

This group was made at Pelican Island 
under the direction of Mr. Chapman, the back- 
ground being by Mr, Horsfall, and the birds 
mounted by Mr. E. W. Smith, The group 
represents the island early in March , when — 
another curious phase of the pelican — one 
may see every stage of the nesting season, 
from the fresh egg to the bird on the wing. 
Although not shown in the reproduction, in 
the original group , high in the air, hundreds 
of pelicans may be seen fly 



that the water in these groups is represented 
by celluloid, cleverly tinted to the exact shade 
and fashioned with a u ripple " which 
increases the illusion. 

In the group representing a colony of nesting 
flamingos (No. 3) the untravelled reader may 
consider there is some exaggeration — the birds 
being so closely grouped together as almost 
to jeopardize their breathing capacity. Yet 
there is no exaggeration at allj the group 
being an actual reproduction of one of the 
most remarkable scenes in bird-life. Studies 
for this group were made in the Bahamas in 
June , 1905 , the background being by L. A. 
Fuertes (birds) and Carlos Hit tell (landscape). 
The birds were mounted by Herbert Lang, 

The colony of which this group is a repre- 
sentation consisted of over two thousand 
nests, " Before the studies for this group 
were made/ 1 explained Mr. Chapman, who is 
justly proud of what k regarded as the " star " 




bird -group in the Museum, ft very little was 
known about the nesting habits of flamingos* 
For this reason, and because of the belief that 
a, reproduction of a flamingo city (beyond 
question tKe most remarkable sight in the 
world of birds) would possess exceptional 
interest, an expedition was dispatched to the 
Bahamas in 1902 to find flamingos on their 
nesting grounds. It was unsuccessful ; but 

photographed separately and together, the 
observations being made during May and 
June, which is the nesting season. The 
flamingo may be regarded as a very practical 
architect and builder, constructing his nest, 
as he does, by scooping up mud and patting 
it down with bill and feet. The nests are 
raised to a height of from eight to fourteen 
inches — according to the exalted ideas of the 
builder— the main object being to protect the 
inhabitants or contents of the nests from a sud- 
den and possibly unlooked-for rise in the water. 
It might be mentioned for the benefit of the 
reader who thirsts for ornithological knowledge 
that the curious shape of a flamingo's hill is 
due to the manner in which it hunts for its food, 
which consists of the small spiral cerithium shell 3 
which the bird finds in the mud. This constant 
forcing of its bill into the mud has the tendency 
to make the point turn upwards, which is the 

in 1904 the search was re- 
sumed, and on this occasion 
the birds were di covered 3 
and from an artificial blind, 
concealed in the very heart 
of their rookery, contain- 
ing two thousand birds, a 
series of unique photo- 
graphs and observations was 

If the reader will examine 
this group carefully he will 
find that almost every bird 
has a different pose. This 
was not done according to 
the whim of Mr. Lang, who 
mounted them, but was 
based on photographs made 
from a blind hidden in a 
bush in the very centre of 
the colony. The birds were 

Vol. jrlviii.^35- 




real story of how the flamingo got its bill. 
When first born, and up to the time that it 
begins to forage for itself, the bill of the 
flamingo is quite straight. 

The very beautiful group representing the 
American egret in a Southern Carolina cypress 
forest (No. 4) is one which generally 
exercises the greatest amount of fascination 
on women visitors to the Museum. And the 
interest appears to have grown since the 
American Government prohibited the importa- 
tion of all egret feathers into the United States. 
" Anyone," Mr. Chapman affirms, " who 
knows how abundant the snowy ' herons ' or 
egrets were in our Southern States twenty-five 
years ago will doubtless be surprised to learn 
that no little difficulty was experienced in 
finding a locality where the necessary studies 
could be made for an egret group. So 
effectively, indeed, have the plume-hunters 
done their work that it was feared this 
beautiful and fast-vanishing species could not 
be included among our bird-groups, when, 
quite by chance, a colony of egrets was heard 
of on a shooting preserve in South Carolina. 
, It appears that when the land was acquired 
it contained a few egrets, survivors of a once- 
flourishing colony. The new owners rigidly 
protected them, and they soon began to 
mcrease, forming, at the end of seven years, a 
rookery which would have done credit to the 
# days of Auduboij." 

When this colony was visited by Mr. 
Chapman and his helpers it was found that 
the nests of the egrets were in cypresses at an 
average height cf forty feet. This did not 
disconcert the naturalists, however, and they 
went to work ^nd arranged a moss-draped 
blind to the limb of a tree forty-five feet 
above the ground. F'om behind this screen 
the birds were observed and photographed, 
while Mr. Horsfall made his sketches for the 
backgrou'-a also from trees in order to secure 
the desired effect Of height. 

" The plumes or ' aigrettes ' for which this 
bird has been slaughtered by the million/' 
Mr. Chapman stated, " are worn by both 
sexes. They are acquired prior to the nesting 
season, and constitute the birds' wedding 
costume. As the season advances and they 
become frayed and dirty, they are shed. 
Aigrettes are to be secured; therefore, only 
during the breeding season, which accounts 
for the surprising rapidity with which the 
birds have been brought to the verge of 
extinction. Concealed in the rookery it is a 
simple thing to shoot the parents as they 
return with food for their young, and in the 
early days of c pluming ' it was not unusual 

for a man to kill several hundred birds at a 
sitting. The plumes grow only from between 
the shoulders, where a circular cut of the 
knife ' scalps ' the bird by removing the skin 
to which the forty or fifty aigrettes are 
attached.' ' 

A very striking group represents the 
duck hawk (No. 5^, a near relative of the 
Old World peregrine falcon, which it can equal 
in swiftness and strength. Its speed is terrific 
and it can easily overhaul the swiftest flying 
duck, while it possesses the strength to strike 
and kill without any apparent effort. The 
duck hawk may be found in the vicinity of 
New York City, and nests on the Palisades of 
the Hudson. Its nests, however, are fre- 
quently rifled, so that it does not take up any 
permanent residence there. The duck hawk 
is a lazy bird so far as household accommoda- 
tion is concerned, for it builds no nest, but 
lays its eggs on the bare rock. 

The material for this group was collected 
by Mr. R. B. Potter on Hook Mountain, near 
Nyack, New York. The background, how- 
ever, painted by Mr. Hobart Nichols, repre- 
sents the Palisades northward from the 
" Gorge " at Englewood. The accessories to 
this group are particularly fine, and represent 
an infinite amount of labour and care on tlje 
part of Mr. Figgens. The birds were mounted 
by Mr. Lan^. 

Mr. C. J. Hittell, whose work in con- 
nection with these remarkable bird-groups is 
beyond praise, has had various experiences 
in making the sketches for the backgrounds. 
A book might be written on Mr. Hittell's 
personal adventures alone, but we shall 
content ourselves with a couple of incidents 
which certainly added to the excitement of 
his chase after " local colour." The present 
writer was shown a very small photograph of 
Mr. Hittell climbing a rope on the side of a 
cliff preparatory to getting into an eagle's 
nest, but when an attempt was made to 
enlarge it for reproduction the result was so 
poor that it had to be abandoned. The 
reader will, therefore, have to content himself 
with his own ideas of this scene. 

" Early in our expedition/' writes Mr. 
Hittell, " we went to Wyoming for sage hens 
and a picture of the sage-brush plains ; also 
to find a particular eagle's nest built in an 
interesting region of picturesque cliffs, of 
which we had a photograph. This nest was 
said to be located in what is called ' Bates 
Hole,' sixty or seventy miles from the rail- 
road. That was our only clue. 

" Well , we got a rancher to take us from the 
nearest railroad station, Medicine Bow, in his 



* prairie schooner ' to this remote region. We 
could see cliffs around the * Hole } from our 
camp, and we managed to guess correctly the 
side where this nest was located. When we 
reached these cliffs., by diligent climbing and 
close observation we found the particular nest 
for which we had come. It was not so much 
the nest, of course, that I was after as its 
background — a splendid perpendicular cliff 
like a mighty fortress that jutted out against 
the sky and distant 
plains and moun- 
tain-. It was, in- 
d e e dj the 
tion of the 

blowing overhead, and it dislodged loose pieces 
of this rock varying in size from gravel to 
that of brickbats. These were constantly 
dropping all around me. I was struck 
repeatedly by small pieces, and my sketch 
was well dusted several times. Larger rocks 
fell dangerously close to my head. I could 
not watch these missiles and paint at the same 
time, and I could not dodge, so I trusted to 
luck and worked away until my sketch was 

finished, although 

by that time I was 

trembling from the 

mental and 


strain. A 


eagle's nest 
and the 
that was so 
interesting and pic- 
turesque. An o t he r 
eagle's nest in plain 
view clung to the 
wall of the rock. 

M In making the sketch of this scene my 
only available position was on an incline so 
steep that I had to drive a spike (which I 
carried with me) into the slope to brace my 
foot against as I sat and held my sketching- 
board between my knees, At my back was 
a great wall of sandstone, almost overhanging. 
To add to my discomfort there was a gale 


ride to c amp 
on an un- 
ranch -horse 
not used to cumber- 
some baggage and 
tubes rattling in a 
paint-box, which 
distressed him not 
a little, was made without incident, but the 
rancher expressed himself as being much 
relieved when he saw me ride safely into 

il The next thing to be had after the picture 
of the nest and the home of the eagle was an 
actual nestjOr at least the material of a nest* 
Our ran^r.^^'^^^^ple rt far 



from his home ; so upon our return to the 
ranch-house we started out with a team of 
horses hitched to a two-wheeled cart with a 
large wagon bed.. We carried about seventy- 
five feet or so of halter rope, a chain, and a 
long pole. The idea was to prise off the nest, 
or part of it, from the rock after climbing to 
the top. The nest we chose was built against 
the sheer side of a great cliff about a hundred 
Jfeet high, and what looked to us to be about 
twelve or fifteen feet from the top ; but we 
found that this latter distance was almost 
twice as great. The pole was useless. I 
volunteered to tic the rope above and climb 
down into the nest. I fastened one end of 
the rope to a boulder, secured it, and threw 
the other end over the cliff. We could not 
see the nest from above ; but Mr. Chapman, 
who remained below with his camera, called 
out to us in which direction to shift the rope 
so that it would hang directly in front of the 
nest. The rock overhung a little, so that the 
rope swung clear. When we had its correct 
position fixed I tied the other end around my 
waist, and, taking a firm hold above, I leaned 
over and looked below. The nest was in 
sight and in a line with the rope, so I swung 
off and let myself down, hand under hand, 
until I reached it. I was surprised at its 
great size, for as I sat in the nest with my 
back against the cliff to which it was attached, 
and stretched out my legs in front of me, my 
feet did not reach to the outer edge. The 
twigs and branches which composed it were 
interlaced in a wonderful manner. Eagle 
feathers and bones of small animals lay about. 
The twigs were so strongly interwoven, indeed, 
that I had great difficulty in tearing loose a 
number of these with one hand, while I 
partly supported my weight with the other 
hand on the rope, as I did not know whether 
the nest was sufficiently secure against the 
rock to bear me. 

" Then I started to climb out, but my hands 
were slipping ; the rope was too thin for a safe 
hold of this kind, and I slid back into the 
nest. The rope was too short to reach the 
bottom of the cliff or I might have slid down 
to safety, so my only hope was to climb. I 
spat on my hands and, seizing the rope again, 
with a fixed determination to ' do or die/ I 
went up, hand over hand, climbing steadily, 
for I knew my life depended on keeping a 

cool head. Although my hands kept slipping 
I continued to gain until I reached a point 
where the rope lay against the rock. Here 
I managed to relieve some of the strain by 
getting as great a surface of my body against 
the cliff as possible, where I rested for a 
breathing spell while I still clutched the rope 
like a drowning man. Then, with another 
desperate pull — it seemed the last that was 
in me — I climbed or squirmed a little higher, 
when the rancher reached over, grasped my 
hand, and helped to swing me up out of 
danger. * Good boy/ he shouted, as he 
slapped me on the back ; ' I wouldn't have 
tried that for ten thousand dollars/ 

" When we descended to the place below 
the nest to pick up the specimen branches 
that I had thrown over, we found about a 
couple of wagon-loads of other branches that 
had fallen from the nest from time to time. 
Some of these twigs and branches were so 
decayed and weather-beaten by time and 
exposure that they might have lain there a 
great many years. The eagles evidently kept 
this nest in thorough repair, and after we left 
I was told that they set to work again and 
had their ' house in order ' a week or two 
later. In fact, this nest must have been the 
home of many generations of eagles, and may 
have been originally constructed centuries 
ago. Fortunately for me, the eagles were 
not at home when I called ! We took home 
a cart-load of specimen branches, which now 
form the nest in the group of the golden 
eagle in the Natural History Museum." 

In the confined space of a single article it is 
impossible to refer in detail to every bird- 
group contained in this remarkable series at 
the American Museum of Natural History. 
Many have been omitted which perhaps are 
quite as interesting and beautiful as those 
referred to. But reams of description could 
not convey any adequate idea of the marvel- 
lous fidelity of these groups to Nature herself, 
and they must be seen to be appreciated. 
Any reader who visits New York may omit 
from his sight-seeing the Brooklyn Bridge, 
the Statue of Liberty, the Grand Central 
Station, the Tombs, or anything else equally 
famous, and the loss to him will not be half 
so great as if he failed to visit these wonderful 
" Habitat Groups " in the Natural History 

by Google 

Original from 

IS wife 
was John 
G u e s t's 
sole and 
single ad- 
venture ; 
she resembled no 
other woman he had ever seen. 
She belonged to a class that 
was lower than his own. He 
knew something of her father 
and wished to know no more. 
It was an understood thing 
between him and Pauline that 
she gave up her family when 
she married him. He never 
spoke of them, nor did she. 
In exchange he gave her much, 
or so he thought : a big house, 
wealth, and the satisfaction of 
all reasonable desires 
save those of off- 
spring. She was a 
strange creature, and 
he knew it. Some- 
times he said, to him- 
self with a sigh : — 

"I understand 
Kant's ' Critique of 
Pure Reason ' a great 
deal better than I do 

He grew content 
not to know her. He 

never wondered if he knew himself. He was 
content to let her be what she was, and what 
she would be. He accepted the days in 
which she was his friend, the days in which 
she was inscrutably sphinx-like, and at last 
the days in which she said that she hated 
him and England. She used to say that if 
she did not get away she should commit 
suicide. He let her go. These attacks came 
on in the spring ; she grew fearfully restless. 
In the old days he had heard that her father 
was the same. He had worked for three 
months, and worked furiously ; but the rest 
of the year he had been an idler and a 

Certainly Pauline was like him, essentially 
an artist. She painted well, but rarely 
painted in England. Most of her work was 
done in Paris when she left him for two 
months, and there she worked hard. She 



Morley Roberts 

Illtistrsited <£fcy 



shared a studio with 

a friend. For the 

rest of the year she 

took little interest in 

any art ; she became 

somnolent, almost 

sluggish. She was 

tall and fair, with strangely 

sleepy eyes. Folks said she was 

fascinating, others that she 

was sensual. She had great 

colouring, red lips ; her hair 

was gold and honey. 

There was some strangeness 
in her blood to make her paint 
as she did. There was notable 
wildness in all she drew, 
something devilish, something 
macabre. All her work showed 
what a Puritan critic might 
have called the spirit 
of evil. Yet to all 
appearances she ac- 
cepted what others 
did as she accepted 
the life of London; 
as she accepted her 
husband. She had no 
real friends, and did 
not need them. She 
lived much in her 

f& own room. Save 

» for a bookcase which 

held nothing but a 
French and Italian books this room 
was Oriental in character. There was a 
beautiful coloured lamp in it; it had low 
couches and a silken Persian carpet. On 
a pedestal stood a marble copy of the Dancing 
Faun. She said that she loved and hated it. 
It represents, more fully than any work of 
art that exists, the very joy of life. Though 
he is strangely a creature of the earth he 
barely touches it with his moving feet. He 
lifts his hands to the unseen birds and seems 
to call them. 

" I love him in the spring," said Pauline. 
" I could dance with him, too." 

There was no division in him, no regret, no 
thought or fear of death, no hope of heaven, 
or of any paradise other than that of the 
translucent, ambient air, the shining, singing 
waters, the sunlight that was a song. Long, 
long years s#o he tUmcui !t>efore his happy 




Copyright, 19x4, by Morley Roberts. 



maker ; and still he dances as the great pro- 
cession passes him with bowed heads — those 
that hear not the birds, nor the song of the 
wind, nor the music of the rhythmic waters, 

" I love him in the spring," said Pauline 
Guest, " when my own blood moves. He is 
so fine, so strong. His hair is a kind of rude 
crown. He's beautifully ugly — so rough, and 
so clean. His very hand calls out and 
dances. And even his little tail behind is so 
sweet — so sweet ! And — he's dangerous ! " 

But John Guest shook his head and looked 
puzzled, and said : — 

" Well, well, my dear Pauline, if you like 
it that's all right, but I must say I prefer the 
front view. The tail gives me a shiver." 

The truth is that he was a Puritan who 
ought to have married what he understood. 
It was a perpetual wonder to him that he 
had achieved Pauline. He had something 
not unlike doubts as to the morality of his 
marriage ; there was something pagan in her. 
She was voluptuous, cryptic, unintelligible. 
It was as if he had uttered some uncompre- 
hended spell and had been endowed by Fate 
with a creature half a witch and half an 
odalisque. Apparently she loved him, but 
he could never be sure. 

" My dear John, I am sometimes two 
people," she said, " or even more." 

The odd thing was that folks said she 
actually had a double, a strange woman who 
was a dancer, a Madame Darya. Some said 
she was a Russian, but others had it that she 
was Italian or Spanish. She played upon her 
public and remained a mystery. She never 
danced save in the spring. During the spring 
$he appeared in Paris, in Vienna, in St. 
Petersburg, in Budapest, or as far east as 
Bucharest. During these months the world 
heard of her, then she was lost. Report 
attributed to her many lovers. 

Pauline Guest knew all about her, or all 
that people said. She brought home a 
photograph from Paris and showed it to her 
husband. He found the likeness strange, and 
yet he denied that it was really like. There 
was no sleepy luxury about her, no restfulness. 
Pauline rarely spoke of her, although she 
owned that she had seen her, and all her 
acquaintances who knew of this strange 
likeness wondered she took so little apparent 
interest in her double. She shrugged her 

" Doesn't one hate to have a double in the 
world ? But if she's like me perhaps she 
dances for me. Is that an odd thing to say ? 
Perhaps she leads the quietest life all the rest 
of the year. Inside she must be very like me." 

" That may be so," said her husband, who 
was then with her. " Perhaps she goes away 
into some quiet place, and looks after her 
children and some dull dog of a husband." 

And Pauline sighed. 

" They say she has no children." 

And Pauline had none either. 

They had this talk in the winter, but when 
spring was in the air she was once more restless 
and uneasy. The sleepy look went out of 
her eyes ; she grew more alert, her temper 
was fiery. Her maid was sometimes found 
in tears. Then her mistress petted her and 
gave her presents, and said : — 

" For Heaven's sake stop crying or I'll 
beat you. Take this dress — you'll look quite 
pretty in it. If you cry I'll have you thrown 
out of the house." 

Her husband tried to occupy her, to fill her 
mind. He did not like her going abroad, 
even to her friend, although he knew she 
worked so hard. 

" In the spring I'm mad, John, and you 
know it," she said. 

She did not remind him of what folks had 
said of her own family — that they all grew 
mad in the springtime. She became an 
impossible wife. She rose early in the 
morning and walked in the Park, a thing she 
did at no other season. But at last she went 
to him. 

" John, I must go to Paris," she said. 
" I'm unendurable to myself, . and shall 
presently be more than unendurable to you. 
You must let me go." 

That night she spoke to the Dancing Faun 
upon his pedestal. 

" Now I understand you again," she said, 
" you strange wild man of the woods, of the 
ancient forests, you creature of pure joy. I 
understand you and — others." 

For was he not the companion of wild birds 
and beasts ; a heavenly, earthy creature of 
joy ; some lesser Dionysus ? 

Early next morning she roused her sleeping 
maid and, dragging the girl into her room, 
bade her pack for Paris. Before her husband 
was up she and the maid were out of town. 
She did not even bid him good-bye, but left 
a letter for him. As he read it he sighed — 
he seemed to understand a little. He knew f 
that he had married an artist, and had to 
endure it. He did not understand, and yet 
deep within himself he felt capable of under- 
standing. Perhaps there was that within . 
himself which some day mght comprehend 
what Pauline understood when Pan blew his 
marvellous pipe., when the Faun danced and 

fluted magically 




She wrote to him from Paris and told him 
that she was working. In her postscript she 
said : " Next week my double dances. I 
shall see her again. You'd hate her — I'm sure 
you'd hate her." 

And the next week Madame Darya came 
to Paris. She had a greater success than 
ever ; the theatre in which she danced was 
packed nightly. The world talked of her. 
But the success was not all her own ; there 
was a strange element in it which was life, 
not art. He who danced with her during the 
last three years was a notable wild creature 
from Eastern Europe. Some said he was a 
gipsy, some an Italian ; others said he came 
from the eastern shores of the Adriatic. He 
was the Dancing Faun reincarnated ; living 
bronze, a live creature of joy. He was 
strangely ugly, with the ugliness of the 
Neapolitan Faun himself ; but his figure was 
more splendid, more powerful, and yet as 

It was said that now he loved the woman 
he danced with, and that this love had come 
to him suddenly — that the woman had pro- 
voked it. Before then he had seemed strange 
and soulless, a creature who was flesh and 
spirit and yet untainted with human passion, 
not knowing its tortures. He had danced 
with her as though she were no mate of his, 
though in many of their dances there had 
.been the passion of the earth-woman for 
something immortal and above her. It was 
she who had shown passion and had sought 
him, pursuing him in forests at sun-dawn, in 
the deep blue nights of mountains, in blinding 
baths of changing colours. Till lately he had 
been a lesser god who stood above the passions 
of the earth, the youthful, pursued male, 
unconquered and chaste. But now people 
watched them with bated breath and spoke 
in whispers. When the curtain rose upon 
them to the bird-call of a solitary flute there 
was an expectation as of high tragedy. 

They said the gipsy and the Faun had, at 
last become a man and a lover ; though some 
declared that it was but art, a thing fashioned 
to make a new appeal. Now it was he who 
pursued. In her were the beauty and power 
of her sex, and yet a great fear and high 
reluctance. For all the passion of her feet 
and limbs and body she had a powerful and 
virginal air — triumphant and sometimes terri- 
fying. Hers seemed an unsunned chastity, 
and she was the more mysterious. Many 
men who saw in her the romance and tragedy 
of passion gave her their hearts, and women 
flocked to see her that they might surprise 
her secret* 

The power of tragedy grew about her and 
about him who was her companion. Each 
night the atmosphere grew tenser. Those 
who had come once came again ; those who 
had never come came now. There was the 
expectation of death in the theatre, so that 
the great house seemed to sigh. And the 
"fuller he grew of passion the more aloof was 
she, even though they were locked together 
in the high passion of the dance. He lifted 
her at last in his powerful arms and bore 
her off the stage. When they came back to 
receive the applause of the house which rose 
to them she was strangely white. It seemed 
that the Faun reeled and bowed his head 
that he had held so high. Folks said at last 
that she was afraid. 

Pauline sent some pictures to her husband 
in London, and wrote to him : — 

" I am working hard, very hard. I have 
sent you to-day a sketch of Madame Darya, 
and one of the Dancing Faun, the man with 
whom she dances. You would know him — 
he is the living picture of the Faun that is in 
my room. You've often wished to see her, 
so you say — you will be able to see her now. 
They tell me she is to dance for a week in 
London very soon. They're paying her 
tremendously. I think you'll hate her, 
because she's like me. I shall be back soon. 
I think I've done enough." 

She put in a postscript, " Don't go and see 
Madame Darya. I think I'd like you not to 
see her. You'd think it horrible." 

She. came back from Paris exhausted, as 
white as though she had been bled, as though 
she had lived out of the sun, as though she 
had spent herself utterly. Her husband 
found her aloof, reserved, and fretful. She 
was not herself. She seemed nervous and 
agitated. They spoke of Madame Darya, and 
Pauline for once talked of her almost freely. 

" You saw her again ? " asked her husband. 

She nodded. 

" Oh, yes ; I saw her." 

" Do you still think she's like you ? " 

" Oh, yes — of course she is," said Pauline. 
" You wouldn't/ be pleased. Don't go and see 
her, John — I'd hate you to see her. And 
now I hate the man they call the Dancing 
Faun. He's strange and dangerous — a 

" A madman ? " asked her husband. 

" He's mad about her," said Pauline; 
" quite mad. She fears him. He is but a 
wandering gipsy — but I'm sorry for him. He 
used to be so joyous — but now he loves her." 

" And she — is she his mistress ? " asked 

her husbajid.'ERSITY OF MICHIGAN 





T ,N WgK 



Pauline shook her head. 

" No, no," she said. " That's not true— 
I'm sure it's not true. He's too unhappy. 
They say that he loved somebody else, and 
that — this woman tried to get him away. 
And now she has succeeded she hates him — 
people say so — and fears him." 

"Is he that kind of man ? " asked John 
Guest, " The sort she might fear ? " 

Pauline nodded again. 

" Now he is a devil," she said. " He's a 
creature without a soul. Perhaps his body 
is his soul. If you could think of the Dancing 
Faun in bronze with all the joy gone out of 
him you'd see him. He doesn't call to the 
birds any more, John. I'm — I'm very sorry 
for him. They do not come now and alight 
upon his uplifted fingers. Once they did — 
so folks say — really. He doesn't look at the 
birds now ; all he wants is this — woman. It's 
very dreadful. When I saw them he was 
like a dancing death. The house seemed 
appalled. I heard the whole theatre sigh. 
It seemed to them as though they must leap 
upon the stage and stop him before he killed 
her. She fainted — they say so — in her 
dressing-room, and he cried outside her 
locked door like a child. I think she must 
be sorry now — but I believe she'd do it again. 
It's in her blood — in the springtime." 

" Then she has no lover ? " asked John 

" No," said Pauline, " I don't believe it." 

" And what does she do when she doesn't 
dance ? " asked John. 

" They say she never tells anyone where 
she lives or what she does — not even those 
who are nearest to her," said Pauline. 

" She has relatives ? " asked her husband. 

" Tliey say so," said Pauline. 

The next week the dancer appeared in 
London. Her story, and the story of the 
Dancing Faun, came before her. Together 
and separately they flamed on posters. He 
was the Dancing Faun himself, nude save for 
a leopard skin. Each muscle showed itself : 
he seemed about to leap, to run, to dance. 
But the artist who had drawn him had 
somehow put a human, tortured soul into the 
rude, rough face of this living child of the 
earth who had sprung anew out of the soil of 
Greece or some far Eastern country. There 
was tragedy about him, and fear, and the 
beginnings of painful thought ; for of these 
things, and of love, is made the soul of man. 

And she was wonderful — a whirl of flame 
and fire against a deep, dark background. 
Her head stood out against some colour that 
was the colour of infinity. It was done with 

Vol xlviiL— 3a 

power and yet with subtlety, so that those 
who beheld could read into it what strange 
things they would. She attracted and repelled 
many very strangely. She was a success 
before she danced, for the whole world spoke 
of her — not only the little world which calls 
itself such, but all London, which is many 
worlds. Pauline's friends came to her and 
asked her to go to the theatre with them. 
She refused. 

" I have seen her," she said. " When I go 
I shall go alone. I am jealous of her. At 
times I think I could have done what she 
does — there's something hateful in not being 
wholly oneself. Yes, she is very like me, and 
I will not go with you." 

John Guest refused to admit a likeness 
between his wife and this dancing woman of 
the theatre, and yet he knew there was a 
great likeness. It seemed an outrage to him ; 
it hinted at the strange possibilities that there 
might be in Pauline. He dreaded the 
passions of others, and the passions that were 
his own. He feared the nature of man, and 
his own nature. And yet this creature of the 
theatre, this woman of the posters, strangely 
attracted him. He desired to see her, for it 
was such a creature as this that his secret 
heart — the heart of the natural man — desired. 
Pauline, save for her stormy part of the year, 
in which he did not see her, was very quiet. 
He believed in her affection. She had 
beauty and great qualities. She was sweet, 
most reasonable. These things he had 
desired in his wife, and against his expectation 
and his fear of her heredity had found them, 
and found them not sufficient. He had not 
been paid his price. Something told him 
that if she had been different he, too, would 
have been other than he was — able to realize 
the ideals of all men's hearts that lead 
towards self-realization. He had not accom- 
plished himself. Through passion and great 
love this can come. It comes in no other way. 

" I must see this woman," said John 

Many times he walked past the theatre in 
which she was to appear and saw that face 
lifted above him. It was Pauline, but another 
Pauline; alien, strong, inscrutable, and most 
alive ; a creature of snow and fire, of flesh 
that was ice and flame ; a being capable of 
all things, of all joys, of all sufferings. He 
felt strange passions stir within him as he 
looked upon her. For the night on which 
she appeared he bought a solitary seat at a 
fourfold price, and he did not desire that his 
wife should go with him. But indeed she 

woul ^MfeT^f^rt,r ubled - She 



said it was because a friend of hers was very 
ill and might die. 

" No, you don't know her/' said Pauline ; 
" but she wants me. I must be with her. 
She is afraid— -afraid of death. I shall be 
with her every night this week. I, too, am 

The Cosmopolitan Theatre that night was 
packed from the floor to the ceiling. There 
was not a vacant seat in the house, and many 
had been sold and resold, and bought again by 
those who had sold them as passion grew to 
see the dancer, when any night might yield 
a tragedy. 

Guest never remembered what performance 
preceded the dance — if any came before it but 
some strange music. He was not a musician, 
but he felt it, and felt it deeply. Yet there 
was something in much that the orchestra 
played which revolted him. It was the 
essence of revolt itself, luxurious and madden- 
ing ; music that was Russian and half 
Oriental, such as Balakhireff or Glazounow 
might have written. The Puritan strain in 
Guest's mind made him uneasy and angry as 
he heard it. He understood vaguely the call 
it made to the deep underlying instincts of 
man, to the emotions that are the voice of 
his instincts. It was a summons and a 
challenge : a summons to the unspoilt heart, 
a challenge to such as held beliefs which look 
beyond death. He waited eagerly and with 
strange shrinking what she would be or do, 
she who was so like the dear woman of his 

The prelude died down at last in no crash 
of barbaric chords, but in a somnolent wail 
like the cry of the child who yields reluctant 
to the night. And then the curtain rose upon 
a darkened stage — in which he saw presently 
the court of some palace, gigantic, Mycenaean. 
Through its mighty pillars and past its carven 
monsters showed the deep blue of a tropic 
night, with the far hint of a desert, or of 
still waters. The house was utterly silent ; 
it seemed as if none breathed. 

Then the dancer came upon the stage, clad 
in dark blue with silver stars upon her robe. 
With a torch she lighted cresset after cresset 
that flamed in strange colours, and she danced 
a solitary dance. Guest saw even then by 
her motions that she was strangely like 
Pauline, but what she danced, or how she 
danced it, he did not know. He heard 
people sigh, even as he himself sighed ; it was 
like the sound of a low wind. She moved 
with a strange and mighty authority. Her 
dignity was tremendous, it was inspiring, it 
was magical and subduing. Why he felt it, 

or how he felt it, he did not know, and yet in 
Guest's heart there was a great expectation 
as though the monuments among which she 
moved would very presently crumble into 
dust. She was the things that are, that 
presently shall not be ; the things that were, 
and are not ; the things that shall be, and 
soon shall be no more. He felt the bitter 
evanescence of all things, and knew that his 
deepest thoughts and highest affections were 
but the vain motions of a day, of an hour, of 
a moment. 

And presently as the dancer moved, the 
light died down into one gleam that was 
faint rose upon her face. She stood at last 
with her robes gathered about her so that her 
stars were hidden, and was only a disembodied 
spirit, with all the rest deep blackness. And 
in her smile there was something strange and 
bitter, like the smile of human death. The 
light faded, and he still saw her, and wondered, 
and half-rose from his seat, as many did 
beside him. And then she smiled, and the 
light went out utterly. 

He heard the thunder of other people's 
applause but did not lay one hand to another; - 
He felt himself tremble, he shook all over. 
He heard fools say even as they ceased 
applauding, " What does it mean ? Did you 
think her beautiful ? " 

But she was very beautiful, and the 
meaning of it shook his soul. 

By some strange motion of his mind her 
likeness to Pauline gave him peculiar rights. 
Even before he saw the man who danced with 
her he was outraged by the thought that any 
danced with her. Until the curtain rose on 
the next scene he could not conceive her in 
dances other than those which were symbolical 
of the great things of time. He wondered 
what the next dance would be, the dance they 
called " The Awakening." This was the 
dance in which people feared for the dancer, 
and came lightly to see her run some 
monstrous and terrible risk. 

And then the curtain rose and he saw the 
Faun, the Faun of marble that stood upon 
the pedestal beneath the coloured lamp in his 
wife's room. Now he was alive, a man, or 
some strange god or demigod ; a creature of 
the woodlands who piped on a strange pipe 
and was brother to the birds and beasts, a 
child of the dear earth, a friend of the winds 
and the singing waters. He was powerful, 
lithe, muscular. There was a strange and 
rude ugliness about him, the same incult 
aspect that the statue showed. He was not 
human, he had no soul. He seemed untouched 
and untroubled I o^ ^"passion. There was 




something malely virginal about him, for 
that was his art and the part he played. 
Guest tried in vain to discover within him 
any signs of the passion that people saw was 
his. But then heJcnew they called the dance 
" The Awakening." Perhaps he had not 
wakened yet. It might be. that he waked 
nightly, ever with' new surprise, to the terror 
and passion of human love. 

He saw him lifting his hand, though he was 
still silent, to the birds of the air, to the winds 
and the waters. And then he piped a beauti- 
ful little soulless song and lay down and slept 
upon the earth, as though the live creature 
which lay prone upon the dust knew he was 
brother to the clay beneath him. And she 
who was a woman, not one of his friends the 
dryads or wild oreads from the peaks of 
Olympus or Hymettus, came in to him and 
found him sleeping. She was a woman, 
hardly more than a girl, so young she looked 
— as young as Pauline when Guest had 
married her, as young as when he met her 
first in her strange loneliness and bore down 
her youthful, innocent opposition to his love. 

" I never waked her," said John Guest, 
and his heart within him was a dull pain. 

But the creature on the stage was all 
awake and dtive. She knelt beside the 
sleeping Faun and stole his flute and piped 
to him as he slept. The scene might have 
come out of Theocritus of Syracuse ; Virgil 
or a greater might hav^ written it. And at 
last the Faun woke and heard — not wild 
fluting like his own, but her arresting music. 
It was another measure, something luring 
and passionate, luxurious and of the senses, 
full of passion and sunlight and fierce ardour. 
He knew the moods of the oreads and 
hamadryads, those mystic creatures of half- 
immortality, but this, it seemed, was his first 
sight of a woman, a creature of earth, some- 
thing more alluring than the daughters of 
the gods. He looked at her with a great 
surprise, perceiving things within her that 
the immortals had not. She was the earth- 
passion incarnate : coy and enticing, reluctant 
yet unreluctant. And even as she played 
upon him like a pipe those who saw him felt 
she was the woman who knows all things ; 
while the Faun was the male, a youth, a 
child, virginal, and wildly shy. She mocked 
his innocence with strange learned eyes, and 
drew him to his feet, and left him, and he 
followed ; and then she came back to him 
boldly, and yet with strange meekness that 
was like a mask. And she smiled subtly. 
_ He who knew the -creatures of the high 
peaks and . the woodlands had yet learnt. 

nothing. She made herself his teacher. She 
taught him to dance, and gave him part of her 
own passion, and he drank of the cup she 
offered with a passionate reluctance which 
was easy to break and bear down. In his 
fantastic wild surprise there was an element 
of fear, and of knowledge that all he bought 
that hour would be paid for to thfc- utmost. 
Though she gave him a soul she sapped the 
life out of him and used it, and he perceived 
no more the eternal mockery which was hers. 

And so they danced. To Guest it was as 
if Pauline danced with a strange creature 
become a man. He saw his very wife in the 
arms of a wild lover, the offspring of the woods 
and streams and fields, a thing abhorrent 
when it waked to passion. Moment by 
moment he perceived what folks meant when 
they said the dancer whirled upon the very 
edge of death. The mask of innocence upon 
the Faun faded from him. He understood 
the call she made, though it may be he under- 
stood not her purpose or the purpose of the 
world itself. Heretofore it had had no 
purpose, it was sweet and simple and joyous ; 
now it was terrible and dear. And the dance 
became a whirlwind of passion. Some said 
it was horrible, and most immoral, but even 
those who said so felt the beauty and the pain 
in every love. 

The lights changed from daylight to a 
strange evening, and to the deep blue of a 
tropic night, until at last the dancers Were 
lapped in overmastering darkness, and out of 
a great silence there came a bitter cry, 
which was the sound and sign of the climax 
of the dance. And the hearts of those who 
heard stayed within them, for it was like the 
cry of death, or the cry of a strange new life. 
Then there was silence and a darkness that 
could be felt, and they seemed to hear her 
sob. And many understood, and many did 
not understand. But when the lights came 
back the whole house rose and saw the dancer 
on her knees with her face hidden, and the 
Faun had his hand upon her neck. 

John Guest did not know how he left the 
theatre or reached his home. The house 
emptied when the dance ended. People 
talked in low voices as if they were afraid, not 
only for her but for themselves. The skirts 
of awful chance had brushed them ; they 
knew what was in them, whether it still lived, 
or whether they had slain it ; and they knew 
the great romance was love and death. 

Guest had an odd reluctance to see his 
wife, a reluctance that he understood, and 
did not understand. For he, too, had had his 
awakening. The world itself as he knew it 



AND SO THBV DjQOflW"l ^^rtplfftsT IT WAS AS IK l»W* 





'"Jm " 
^ 1 HU , 

■■. ■ 




V ^ 1 




i . W^' 



■ fe As 


i - . 


















was dust and ashes ; it tasted as if it was a 
poor and evil thing. It seemed to him he had 
missed the greatest, even as Pauline had ; 
but that the dancer knew it, and that the 
Faun knew it, and that though death were 
the end it was a great thing to know. 

When he got home he found his wife had 
come in a little before him. He went to her 
room with a certain odd uneasiness. She 
lacked something. He was still under the 
influence of romance, the romance that he 
would have scorned in other days. But at 
last he went into her room and found her on 
the couch. Save for the glow of the fire and 
one shaded lamp above the Dancing Faun the 
room was in darkness. He did not kiss his 
wife, but put his hand upon her hair. She 
seemed very weary, and yet there was an 
odd eagerness in her voice when she spoke. 

" Have you seen her ? " she asked. 

" Yes, I've seen her," he replied. 

" Do you think her like me, John ? " 

"She's like, but different. She's— very 
wonderful/' , 

" You saw the man she dances with ? " 
asked Pauline. 

He sat down by the fire. 

" Yes, I saw him," said John Guest. " He's 
mad about her — mad ! " 

There was a long silence. 

" How did you find your friend — the 
woman you went to see ? " asked her husband, 

It seemed to him that Pauline shivered. 
There was a strange alteration in her voice. 

" They say she is still in danger," said 

" I'm sorry," said her husband. " Do you 
think it good for you to see her ? " 

" I must — she needs me," said his wife. 
" Tell me — what do you think of this Dancing 
Faun ? Did you really think him mad ? " 

" She's maddening him. What they say 
is true," he answered. " No wonder — no 
wonder ! She's very strange — and like you. 
But you are not like her." 

" I think I understand," said Pauline. 
" Yes, I think I understand what you mean." 

That night it took a long time for him to 
go to sleep, and even when he did sleep at 
last he woke presently with a start. He 
felt sure that he had heard Pauline moving 
in the next room, and yet when he sat up in 
bed he heard nothing. Presently he rose, 
and something drew him downstairs. He 
found his wife's sitting-room door ajar. He 
thought he heard her speak. He pushed the 
door open and saw the little lamp above the 
Faun was lighted. Pauline was standing in 

front of the statue. She spoke, and uttered 
strange words. 

" You — you murderer ! " she said. 

And Guest did not understand, but he was 
afraid to speak to her, and went back to his 
own room. Deep behind his conscious mind 
he wondered and drew conclusions. They 
were not stated for him, but still they grew, 
for that is the way the mind works. He 
knew now that he, too, hated the Faun. 
This woman was like his wife, so like — and 
this dancing madman, this creature of the 
stage, loved her. He felt she was all that the 
wild nature of man desired. If only Pauline 
had been like that ! He remembered the 
ways of the dancer ; they were like those of 
his wife, but bigger, more significant. He 
hungered after nature ; he perceived the 
woman's loosed passion. She was built up 
of strange, interacting, hostile emotions : 
love and hate and joy and pity. She was 
cruel ; she was kind. If only Pauline had 
been like that ! But he knew deep within 
him that she was like it, only she had never 
had her awakening. He had never waked 
her — he himself had never waked till now. 

He felt the unknown surging in him. He 
began to read his own script, to see that he 
was like a palimpsest, an ancient manuscript 
rubbed out and then inscribed again w T ith 
some later and unnatural scripture. In this 
strange bath of passion he seemed to read the 
underwriting that told him what he really was. 
, The next night he could get no seat to see 
the performance. He walked the streets 
instead, and found himself continually return- 
ing to the theatre in which this woman played 
who had stolen his soul. But no, she had 
not stolen it ; she had given him one. He 
knew that all his training had been the denial 
of life, its suppression, its destruction. If 
Pauline had been like this woman he would 
have never let her go abroad alone. He had 
always been so sure of her. He wondered 
now if with great love and passion at its highest 
there was any security. Even in the most 
noble there is the bitter abiding jealousy of 

" Till now I was never myself," said Guest, 
" and she, perhaps, is not herself. I never 
waked her." 

That was true, but was it not even possible 
that someone had ? He walked home across 
the Park and struck out from the path on to 
the grass. And suddenly, like a thunder- 
clap, it came to him. Heseerried to know. 
The whole world fell about him with a crash ; 
he felt stunned. . It was possible ; it was 
impossible. ft.^.^j N ™.-a damnable 



lie. It could not be ; and, by Heaven, it 
was ! This alien woman of the theatre and 
the stage, this incarnate passion, was no alien. 
She was Pauline, the wife of his bosom ! 

She did not love him, never had loved him. 
Her ways with him had not been the ways of 
passion, for he had never called it out. Till 
now he himself had known neither love nor 
passion. He had no right to love. She had 
lived a suppressed life during most of the 
year, and then had done this, had let herself 
go. He remembered that as a child she had 
danced. He had taken away her old life, cut 
her off from her people, cut her off from the 
natural springs of her existence, of her 
nature ; given her all he had of wealth and 
luxury, but had denied her a soul, denied her 
even the right to speak to her father, or to 
her who had nursed her on her heart. But 
now he seemed to understand. She had lied 
to him and had constructed a little life apart, 
something that helped her to live and to 
endure. It was a safety-valve, it might be, 

and yet — and yet What of this strange 

wild woman, the dancer, who piped so wildly 
to the sleeping Faun, to this creature with 
immortal capacities of passion, a creature who 
was still a man beneath all the robes and 
trappings of the theatre ; a rude creature of 
the earth, some gipsy, native to the earth, 
born of it, alive, vibrant, autochthonous ? It 
might be that she loved him, and that the 
story of the dance was but the art of the 

An immense sorrow crushed his soul. He 
had never been able to inspire love, or to 
give her life, the life she needed. But he 
must speak to her, must have it out, must 
wrench aside all that had come between them. 
He wished to see her soul to soul, even if he 
heard the worst. He wondered whether she 
was now at home — whether she would come 
home at all. If it were as he suspected, as 
he feared, it might be that she would yield 
in a moment to the man she danced with. , The 
Faun loved her, that was sure. Acting or no 
acting, bait or no bait for the public, that was 
certain. He had seen naked passion that was 
fire in the man. 

And now he knew how it was that men 
sought their opposites, those who were far 
from them, that were not of their class, those 
that were above or below them. For all men 
and women alike sought some strangeness in 
love. House-mates rarely loved each other. 
When mer> married those they were bred with 
it was no case of passion ; it was sentiment, 
contiguity, habit, and mere use. Affection 
dealt with habit, but passion dealt with the 

extreme, the unknown. It sought out and 
required strange, exquisite satisfactions. She 
had not found them in him, nor had he yet 
found them in her, because she had not waked 
to find his strangeness, nor he to find hers. 

She had lived a sheltered life, as those do 
who bury every day some unused talent, some 
passion, some desire, or some sweet fear. 
Perhaps, if he had but known himself and her, 
he might have found-great gifts in his wife's 
veiled eyes, a great glow in her, deep elemental 
fire. She might have had a flow of perfect 
will towards him and strength that made her 
natural gifts most beautiful. He had not 
had the gifts to wake her. She had sought 
strange and devilish satisfactions in her own 
natural art. 

He did not see her that night, and on the 
pretext of affairs was out of the house before 
she rose. He found an enormous and insuper- 
able difficulty in speaking. His old self was 
still strong in him. He had loathed the 
theatre and all its works ; the essential 
Puritanism of his inherited mind worked upon 
him wonderfully. He could not endure the 
thought that the world saw her, as they could 
see her now, for a price. And yet he had to 
speak, and wondered how he should speak. 
He spent the day thinking, and when he 
returned did not know what he would say. 

The moment that Pauline saw him she 
knew something had happened. He was 
very white ; the lines of his face were 
more deeply marked. He looked at her 
very strangely, doubtfully ; his eyes asked 
questions ; they were an accusation. She 
was startled when she saw him, and, rising, 
went towards him. i 

" What is the matter with you, John ? " 
she asked. 

He almost spoke what was in his mind, 
and then an inspiration came to him. 

" I am not well, and troubled about business. 
I want you tastay with me to-night. I don't 
want you to go out." 

She raised her eyebrows suddenly. He saw 
her eyelids flicker. 

" I can't stay, John. I'm sorry — I must 
go out for an hour — an hour at least." 

" I ask you to stay," said her husband. 

He did not watch her ey£s> but her hands, 
and saw that she clenched them and opened 
them again. 

" I can't do it," said Pauline. 

. " Caa't ? " asked John.'- " Can't ? Do you 

understand that I tell ycu that I am unwell — 

unhappy — and that I want you to stay with 

me in the house this evening ? You must." 

" Must ? " said Pauline. " You've never 






spoken like that to me before. You don't under- "I understand," said her husband. "I 

stand — you don't understand ! There's some- understand what you mean. But you muit 
body I love in danger— in danger of death*" not go out tu-iniitfht." 




" I will," said Pauline. " Understand me 
— I say I will. I have told you that somebody 
I love is in danger of death." 

John Guest looked past her and saw the 
Faun upon his pedestal, the Faun that she 
danced with, the man who loved her, whom 
she had wrecked. 

" You will be safer here," said John Guest ; 
" much safer." 

She watched his eyes, and saw him looking 
past her. She turned, and saw what he 
looked at. He was very white, and so was 
she. Suddenly she saw a red flush come in 
his cheeks, a strange look of rage. 

" I'll have that thing here no longer," said 
John Guest. 

" What thing ? " asked his wife. 

But he went to the pedestal on which the 
Faun stood, and picking it up dashed it to a 
thousand fragments on the hearth. 

" Now do you understand ? " he said. 

And Pauline laughed and said, " I think I 
understand — I think I do understand ! " 

Her husband looked at her. 

" You laugh," he said. " Why do you 
laugh ? " 

" I cannot tell you," said Pauline. 
. But he thought that she laughed because 
this thing was no more than marble ; the 
man still lived. 

" I am going out," said Pauline. 

" I could stop you," said John. 

" By force ? " she asked. " Do you mean 
you could lock the door ? You could not 
keep me in any prison ! " 

There at least love dies, and something told 
John Guest so. There was something magni- 
ficent in Pauline now, although she was very 
quiet — something as great in its own way as 
anything the dancer showed the world. She 
looked magnificent, and he was glad that she 
was a dancer and in his house. 

" I will come with you," he said at last. 

" You shall," said Pauline. " Come ! " 

" Remember, I shall not leave you — not 
for one minute," said her husband. 

" You don't trust me, then ? " said Pauline. 

" By Heaven, I don't ! " said John. 

He had always trusted her, and sometimes 
she had hated it. 

" If you wish it you shall not leave me, not 
for one minute," said Pauline. " You think 
I lied to you when I said that someone I loved 
was in danger. Come now, let us go." 

When they went out to the car she said as 
she entered it : — 

" Tell him to drive " 

Where ? " asked John Guest. 


Vol. xlvin.— 37. 


" To the Cosmopolitan Theatre." 

And John Guest came in and sat down by 

"You think now that you know every- 
thing ? " said Pauline. 

" Everything," said John Guest. " I knew 
it all yesterday, and all the night before. It 
came to me suddenly." 

" And now you hate me," said Pauline. 

For a little while he did not speak. There 
was a great conflict in him. 

" No, no," said Guest. " You are my wife 
— I love you — I love you ! And yet " 

" And yet what ? " she asked. 

" You have played upon me." 

" I kept silence," said Pauline. " You 
wished it. If I could not do all you desired 
I have done my best." 

" This tale of yours, of death and the fear 
of death," said John Guest, " whose fault is 
it ? There's that man " 

She clutched at his arm. " Oh, it's dreadful 
—dreadful ! " 

" You sha'n't do this any more," said 

" You think he might do what people say ? " 
asked Pauline, and he felt her tremble as she 
came closer to him. He felt a shiver through 
her body. 

" Have I not seen him ? " asked Guest. 
* " I saw you," said Pauline. " I saw you." 

" I thought you did," said her husband. 
" I thought you did — I thought I saw your 
eyes upon me. But to-night, Pauline, you 
shall not dance." 

" No — no ; I shall not dance," said 
Pauline, and they came to the Cosmopolitan. 

There was a crowd of vehicles outside, and 
a throng of people, and many police ; but the 
front of the great house was dark. Pauline 
looked out of the car. 

" It's all dark," she cried. " It's all very 
dark ! " 

The car stopped at the rear of some vehicles 
near the door. A commissionaire ran to it. 
He spoke : — 

" There will be no performance to-night, 

" Why not ? Why not ? " cried Pauline. 

And Guest, too, asked, " Why not ? " And 
Pauline caught hold of his arm and clung to 
it. He felt her shake. 

" Something very dreadful has happened, 
sir," said the commissionaire. " Madame 
Darya was killed to-night by Raphael, the 
man she danced with." 

" I knew it ! I knew it ! " cried Pauline, 
" She was my sister." 


Founder and Hon. Sec* Field Events Association ; English Javeliu- 

Throiving Champion 19 li ; Author of u Olympian Field Events™ 

" The Evolution of the Olympic Games ^ etc. ; Member of the 

Berlin Special Commit fee. 

What diet is best adapted for maintaining perfect physical fitness? This is a 

question of direct personal interest to everyone, and is best answered by studying 

the experiences of those who are forced by the necessity of their lives to keep 

themselves in the very pink of condition without respect to any kind of fad or 

crank The following article sums up the experience of different times and nations 

on this subject, and leads, among other considerations, to the most interesting and 

mportant conclusion that diet based on the French system of cookery, which is almost 

universal among the upper classes of Europe, is the worst possible for maintaining 

strength and efficiency. 


ERHAPS the most vexed question in athletic circles all over the 
world is T what should one eat and drink in training ? It is, of 
course , an accepted fact that the art of training for any feat of 
an arduous nature consists of building up the body, while any 
physiologist will say that all the parts which compose the human frame , 
solids and liquids alike, are successively absorbed and deposited. It 
follows , therefore, that a perpetual renovation takes place , regulated 
by the nature of the liquids and solids absorbed and by a healthy 
system of exercise. 

The classical reader will remember that this theory was first pro- 
pounded and acted upon by Herodieus for the removal of disease 
and the maintenance of health. Later, in Roman days, Asclepiades 





so perfected the theory that he practically 
banished the use of internal medicines from 
Rome. Pliny tells us that Asdepiades once 
declared that he would forfeit his title of 
physician if he ever suffered from sickness or 
died of anything but old age or accident j and, 
curiously enough ? he fulfilled his promise, for 
he lived upwards of a century, and met his 
end at last by falling downstairs. His 
longevity is a great tribute to a proper 
system of dietary and exercise. 

As to the actual diet used by the ancient 
athletse, for many years the Greeks in train- 
ing ate nothing but a certain kind of cheese, 
specially prepared from goats' milk. Later 
on a flesh diet was introduced* The Romans, 
in the early stages of training, utilized a 
vegetarian form of diet, consisting of dried 
figs, new cheese ? and boiled grain. Later on, 
again, meat was added to the list, but only 
one sort of flesh was thought suitable, and 
that, curiously enough, was pork, an edible 
absolutely banned by most modern trainers. 
Galen most firmly maintained that pork con- 
tains far more nutriment than any other 
flesh food. It certainly is a very significant 
fact that the ancient athletse complained that 
if they were forced, when in training, to live 
upon anything else but pork for any one meal 
their mental and physical forces alike were 
seriously impaired. 

The method of cooking the pork was by 
roasting or broiling ; boiled flesh was on no 
account allowed. The bread which helped 
out the meat was prepared without leaven. 

In ancient Greece and Rome athletes were 


of all 

only allowed to drink pure spring 
water, and of that only as much as 
would stay their thirst, no liquid of 
any sort being allowed to be taken 
at meals, but only at such a period 
after as would give ample time for 
the digestion of the solids. Among 
the Roman gladiators the principal 
meal of the day was taken in the 

Let us now turn to our own system 
of athletic training. Probably the 
time of our greatest virility was at 
the period of the battles of Tra- 
falgar and Water loo, which coincides 
with the zenith of our power in the 
prize-ring. Observations of the 
conditions of training in the early 
part of the nineteenth century are 
therefore of great in teres t. 

In those days lived a great walker. 
Captain Barclay, who is regarded 
as the greatest 

authorities on 
With him rests 
the credit of devising a 
really sound system of 
feeding for athletes* As 
the apparent quantity 
of food-stuffs taken is 


uNiroairt i 5pffi™jHn K,,ftK " 




somewhat extraordi- 
nary, it will be as 
well to give some 
brief idea of the very strenuous course of 
preparation through which the pedestrians 
of those days passed* 

In going into training the athlete had to 
undergo a regular course of physic, consisting 
of three doses of from one and a half to two 
ounces of Glauber's salts, with an interval of 
four days between the doses. After complet- 
ing the course of physic the athlete entered 
upon a regular system of exercises. 

For the purpose of this article one may 
take the long-distance runner's course of 
preparation j which consisted of covering 
from twenty to twenty-four miles a day, the 
work being split up into different distances at 
varying speeds. He was made to get up at 
five in the morning and to run half a mile at 
the top Oi his speed ? this sprint being followed 
by a six miles' walk at a moderate pace* He 
then returned to his training quarters at 
seven for breakfast, which consisted of beef- 
steak or underdone mutton-chops, stale 
bread, and old ale, A rest was allowed after 
breakfast, and then another six miles' walk 
was undergone, which kept the athlete out 
until about twelve o 'clock , when he again 
returned to his quarters. One would now 
expect him to enjoy a meal, but such was not 
the case — the athlete was put to bed without 
his clothes for half an hour instead. By two 
o'clock he was on the road again, walking 
another four miles. At four he returned to 
his quarters for dinner, which was of an 

exactly similar nature to his break- 
fast. No rest whatever was allowed 
after dinner, the athlete being sent 
straight out for a half-mile run at 
top speed, followed by a six-mile 
walk to allow him to cool off. That 
concluded the work, and also the 
feeding, for the day. At eight 
o'clock the athlete was compelled 
to retire to bed, 

This unvarying routine went on 
day after day for three or four weeks, 
at the end of which time it was 
thought the would-be runner should 
be in sufficiently hard condition to 
allow of the strain of reducing his 
weight. For this purpose he was 
wrapped up in flannels and sent out 
to run four miles at the top of his speed. On 
returning, one pint of hot liquid was given. 
This was known as the " sweating liquor," and 
was composed of the following ingredients : 
( )nt ounce of caraway seed ? half an ounce of 
coriander seed , one ounce of root liquorice, and 
half an ounce of sugar candy, mixed with two 
bottles of cider and boiled down to one-half. 
Having imbibed this mixture the athlete 
was put to bed in the flannels in which he ran, 
covered with six or eight pairs of blankets 
and a feather btd^ and there he stayed for half 
an hour. Being by that time absolutely wet 
through , he was taken out, rubbed thoroughly 
dry j and well massaged, He was then dressed 
in his ordinary clothes, covered with a great- 
coat, and sent out for a two-mile walk at a 
gentle pace. 

After the four- mile run and two-mile walk 
the athlete was now allowed the whole of a 
large roast fowl for breakfast. This process of 
sweating and feeding on fowls lasted weekly 
until a few days before the contest. 

Dealing a little more particularly with the 
food of the athlete in training, it may be 
observed that animal diet alone was allowed, 
beef and mutton being preferred. The lean of 
fat beef cooked in steaks with very little salt, 
and underdone, was considered best. Beef 
therefore formed the staple diet, but as one 
dish would very soon begin to pall upon the 
taste, mutton, being easy of digestion, was 
given as a variant. The legs of fowls were 
also considered to be very nourishing. Meats 
were nearly always broiled, this method of 
cooking being thought to preserve the nourish- 
ing qualities in the meats , better than by 
roasting or boiling. Veal, lamb, and pork 
were never allowed, while all fat and greasy 
su bs t an ce s were forbidden . Vege ta ble s su c h as 
carrots, oa rsmps. and turnips were taboo, as 



being watery and difficult of digestion, and 
the only preparations of a vegetable nature 
taken by the athlete were biscuits and stale 
bread. Fish was not considered sufficiently 
nourishing to be included in the diet. Butter 
and cheese were also omittedj the former being 
considered indigestible and the latter apt to 
turn rancid on the stomach. The yolk of the 
egg was sometimes taken raw in the morning, 
but the white was never touched. Salt, 
mustard 3 and all condiments, with the excep- 
tion of vinegar, were prohibited. 

Great attention was also paid to the matter 
of liquor^ all of which were given cold, with 
the exception of the " sweating liquor " 
just referred to. Home-brewed beer " from 
the wood JJ was considered the best drink, but 
for those who found malt liquor unpleasant 
half a pint of red wine after dinner was 
allowed. The quantity of liquor was strictly 
limited j as too much would swell the abdomen 
and impair the breathing. The usual allow- 
ance was three pints of beer, to be taken at 
breakfast and dinner , as no supper was allowed, 

Water was never given alone, alcohol in the 
form of spirits was forbidden, broth or soup 
were prohibited as having a weakening effect 
on the stomach, but broth 
or gruel was occasionally 
given after the physic , in 
which case it was first 
boiled, allowed to cool, the 
fat skimmed off, and the 
liquid boiled again. Milk 
was thought to bo injurious, 
as being likely to curdle on 
the stomach. 

The system of dieting 
above described seems to 
have been well suited to all 
classes of athletes at that 
time, and, but for the fact 
that it is of too arduous a 
nature to appeal to the 
athletes of to-day, was un- 
doubtedly good, as shown 
by the results attained by 
those who trained on it. For 
instance, Captain Barclay, 
himself the inventor of this 
system of training, walked 
a hundred and fifty miles 
without resting, and also a 
thousand miles in a thou- 
sand successive hours. 

Now as to the English system at the present 
day. Setting aside for one moment all ultra- 
special systems, such as vegetarianism, the 
general and accepted rule among trainers is 





to let their charges eat what they like in 
moderation so long as the food is good and 
wholesome. This is a very fair indication of 
our general slackness in athletics, for surely it 
stands to reason that the heavy body-building 
and muscle - making foods necessary to the 
.hammer - thrower and shot - putter are not 
suited to the jumpers, sprinters, and hurdlers, 
nor will they do for the long-distance runner t 
who requires stamina without weight. 

Suppose we divide the athletic events 
into three classes : A — Hammer-throwers, 
javelin-throwers, discus-throwers, and shot- 
putters ; B — Jumpers, hurdlers, and sprinters; 
C — Long-distance runners. 

Class A requires food which will give 
muscle and weight without diminishing the 
nervous energy or dulling the brain-power. 
A, E. Flaxman, whom I consider to be one 
of the finest hammer- thrower 5 in the world 
at his weight (about eleven stone), eats solid, 
heavy, muscle-making foods and drinks stout 
to increase his bulk. At the same time he 
takes such foods as Sanatogen and Bovril to 
increase his nervous energy. 

Class B requires food which builds up 
certain muscles to stand a sudden strain 
without increasing weight j 
therefore all substances of 
a fat -producing nature must 
be carefully avoided and 
the nervous energy must be 
kept at a high pitch. 

Class C requires the most 
nourishing food possible to 
create powers of great en- 
durance, but which will not 
increase the weight unduly. 
Modern trainers are 
mostly agreed that physic 
of a purgative nature should 
be given at the commence- 
ment of training and the 
stomach thereafter kept 
clean by regular habits- 
Regular meals, plenty of 
open air, and sleep are also 
necessary. All food should 
be of the plainest and 
freshest and adapted to the 
athlete's taste ; made dishes 
are to be sedulously 
avoided ; ale, stout, claret, 
or burgundy are recom- 
mended as the liquors to 
be drunk- An hour or more for rest is insisted 
upon after meals. For the teetotaller milk or 
home-brewed g?ngier-t«er is best. 




coach recom- 
mends is mut- 
ton in prefer- 
ence to beef, 
which is in direct oppo- 
sition to the practice of 
Captain Barclay, who pre- 
ferred beef to mutton. 
Pork and veal are con- 
demned ; stews made from 
beef or mutton are said 
to be good for building up 
the vitality. Poultry is 
considered good and oat* 
meal porridge is 
strongly advo- 
cated for build- 
ing up the 
nervous forces. 
Butter, cheese, 
fish, and pota- 
toes fire now 
considered indispensable to training. This, 
again, is in direct opposition to Captain Bar- 
clay's views. All milk- puddings are, of 
course, excellent. 

For the following menu, which is in vogue 
at the Universities, I am indebted to Mr. E. H. 
Ryles's book, " Athletics "; — 

BREAK FAST. — Porridge ; eggs, kidneys or liver and 
bacon or chop and steak ; toast , jam or marmalade ; 
tea, coffee, or cocoa. 

Lunch. — Cold roast beef or mutton r fresh vege- 
tables ; stewed fruits and milk -puddings ; biscuits, or 
toast and butter ; ale or plain water. 

Dinner, — Clear soup ; fish ; roast meat, fowl or 
game, and vegetables ; stewed fruit and puddings ; 
ale or red wine. 

It will be seen that they feed them very 
well in training at the 'Varsity and keep their 
condition high. But , then , the 'Varsity athlete 
is able to get in more training work than falls 
to the lot of the average business man. 

This almost concludes the English system, 
and it will be seen that opinions have changed 
pretty considerably in the last century, 
although the general root principle seems to 
be the same. On this system we have ex- 
celled in the production of long-distance 
runners j for it is a system that makes for 
staying power and endurance rather than 
great strength or quickness. 

It must be remembered that it takes at 
least three generations to see the effect of a 
diet upon a nation. Now, the English people 
in bygone ages were essentially a race eating 
largely of plain and wholesome food. In the 
last few generations we have taken to eating 
far too many "made" dishes, and to this, 
among other causes, I attribute our falling- 

off in ath- 

I was re- 
cently talk- 
ing to Lieut, ^— *■ 
Muller, the 
inventor of 
11 My System," 
and one of the 
most perfect 
specimens of 
manhood it has 
ever been my 
good fortune to 
meet. He pointed 
out very forcibly 
the reason why 
the Scandinavian 
and Norse people 
excel so greatly 
in the strong-men 
events, by which 
I mean hammer- 
throwing, etC. ENDURANCE," 

Lieut* Muller said 

the Scandinavian people are so big and strong 
because their foods are simple and wholesome. 
"In England meat and fish form the 
main part of your meals , and with it you 
cat only a little piece of white bread, the 
half of which you leave beside your plate. 
This white bread is stimulating, but not 
nourishing. In Scandinavia we eat little 
meat and fish, with a large thick slab of coarse 
black rye bread, which builds up both bone 
and muscle ; also we have but one hot meat 
or fish meal daily* at midday ; at the other 
meals we eat rye bread spread with butter 
and jam or dripping* Frequently we also 
eat pork with our bread r than which there is 
no more nourishing flesh* 

II We do not eat soups made from flesh j 
instead, we have a large basin of thick por- 
ridge put in the middle of the table , and with 
this we take large quantities of butter-milk. 
We also have soups made of other cereals. 
Again, we eat large quantities of boiled 
potatoes, which are their best form. We do 
not go in for saute, fried, or chipped potatoes, 
as you do," 

It may be pointed out that the Irish and 
Scots people, who excel in the field events, 
also eat a great deal of porridge or potatoes, 
while their bread is made from whole meal. 

Of the French people it may be said that 
they are just beginning to come to their own 
in international athletics, because, during 
the last few years, the athletes have given up 
French cookery and taken to the English or 




American diet. As Fleurac once said, " Our 
system is the same as that practised in America^ 
except that the American is told what he is to 
eat j whereas we eat what we like — in reason," 

The Japanese are so entirely new to sport- 
ing pastimes that it is impossible to point to 
the successes they have gained on any special 
diet. Yet one may instance the marvellous en- 
durance of their soldiers in the Russo-Japanese 
War, when the basis of their diet was fish and 
soya beans. Nowadays they are beginning 
to eat more meat, with what result a future 
generation will see. It has been said of the 
Japanese and Hindus that their staple diet is 
rice, but this is incorrect— rice is certainly an 
essential part of their food-scheme^ but only in 
so far as rice is to them what bread is to us* 

Perhaps some of the finest runners in the 
world are the Hindu ricksha w T coolies, who live 
principally on lentils and rice. It is amazing 
to see the quantity of lentil soup a rickshaw- 
boy will eat after a heavy day's work. 

It yet remains to be seen what the Germans 
can do in the realm of athletics, and doubtless 
the 1 916 Olympiad at Berlin will show this, 
but I am of the opinion that for generations 
past the German people have been too fond 
of lager beer, rich stodgy cakes 3 and too great 
a variety of dishes at a meal. It will take a 
number of years of plain living to work off 
the effects of so much rich living. Of course 
there will be a few athletes who live on plain 
food in training 
until 1916 who 
will do well, but 
the nation as a 
whole will not 
benefit yet. 

The American 
system of diet is 
perhaps best 
exemplified in 
Hjertberg's book 
''Athletics in 
Theory and 
Practice," so ably 
edited by the 
o i d Cambridge 
Blue, Mr. S, S. 
Abrahams, in 
which the food-stuffs are set out as follows :— 

Fli£SH. — Beef, lamb, mutton, fowl, and fresh fish* 

VEGETABLES*— Spinach, salads, asparagus (without 
oil or butter), potatoes (baked or boiled), beans, peas, 
and tomatoes , 

Fruit.— Oranges, apples {boiled or roasted), all 
cooked fruit, such as pears, figs, etc., fresh fruit, par- 
ticularly apples. 

BkEAD, — Toast made from bread hard before toast- 
ing. Soft and hot bread mast be avoided* 

Note- — Boiled eggs and omelets are very good* 


When I. began to consider the part of this 
article to deal with special diets I at once 
thought of Mr. Eustace Miles and went to .see 
him. By bad luck I put my foot in it straight 
away, and quite upset Mr. Miles by asking him 
to tell me about his " vegetarian diet." He was 
mort indignant, and said, " For Heaven's sake 
don't talk to me about vegetarianism. I don't 
believe in it. It means the eating of vegetables 
alone. Mine is a food-reform system, based on 
the substitution of other substances for meat." 
At present there are about twenty different 
food -reform diets having nothing in common 
except the avoidance of meat. But whether 
the bases of a food-reform diet is cheese, nuts, 
salad, or proprietary foods is a matter for the 
individual to decide, As a general rule cyclists, 
walkers, and swimmers make eggs and cheese 
their thief bases. The great advantage of such 
a diet is that it does not necessitate the taking 
of regular exercise, and so is of incalculable 
value to the busy City man who cannot 
practise athletic training regularly. It is also 
excellent for giving powers of endurance 3 if 
the diet is well chosen. Another thing about 
it is the avoidance of excessive bulk and too 
great a variety of dishes at any one meal- 

I believe that the Vegetarian Cycling and 
Athletic Club, who rely upon this diet 3 com- 
paring their membership with other clubs 7 
hold the record for feats of endurance, 
To see that there really is a sound foundation 

in these schemes 
of food reform 
one has only to 
mention such 
men as Eustace 
Miles, himself a 
food reformer for 
twenty years; 
OIley, the long- 
distance cyclist j 
Karlmann, the 
winner of the 126 
miles' walk from 
Dresden to Ber- 
lin in 26 hours 
52 rnins, ; and 
Freddie Welsh , 
the holder of the 
World's Lightweight Championship, 

Briefly summarized, 1 think the athletes* 
motto should be M Good plain food and plenty 
of it." One most striking and most important 
fact, which stands out beyond dispute from 
a study of the subject, is that no athlete can 
do his best on the modern French cookery, 
which has become almost universal among the 
higher c| W ^ ftT e 6ft|ffl ^ N 


A I 

Nero Junior 

By Herman Scheffauer 

Illus tra tecftyBa I four Aer 

HE new picture palace , white, 

beautiful , and resplendent , 

lifted itself at the head of 

the long and noisome slum 

street. It was a temple of 

immaculate plaster, with a 

spacious arch, a gilded cupola, 

and a glittering booking-office of brass and 

mahogany, Many brilliant placards flamed 

and clamoured about its entrance. 

A tall porter in a plum-coloured uniform 
encrusted with much gold braid stalked 
majestically to and fro, slapping his trousers 
leg with his little cane- Beyond the heavy 
plush curtains and the harsh green artificial 
palms about the two doors brooded the 
solemn, thick, mysterious dusk of the 

At night it blazed forth into a huge 
magician's palace, studded with rows of 
incandescents as with strings of pearls, and 
flaring with several fierce arcs like small golden 
suns. It was a glorious apparition of bright- 
ness and splendour and life. 

The picture palace had just been erected 
by Mr, Samuel Bracker, who was also the 
landlord of that entire street of slum dwell- 

ings, as well as of the Purple Vine public- 
house at the other end. The row of houses 
which bore the name of Brackets Rents 
had become unfit for human habitation, and 
the Board of Public Works was about to 
condemn them to be demolished. 

Into the great white arch, as into an 
insatiable mouth, flowed the poor and swarm- 
ing population of the neighbourhood, 
pence of the people shot into the little braze 
grate in the ticket-seller f s cage, the squar 
aluminium tokens rattled down in a steady 
automatic clatter. 

Within T in the warm, thick darl 
broken only by the red exit lamps, 
will-o'-the-wisp flashes of the atten 
electric torches, and the white 
light flickering oyer the 
the hushed audience. 
and dull eyes shone as with 
in the reflected light* 
world of dreams, in r 
forgotten — a subt 1 
optic nerve, a 
shed a gent r 

No tti lalfrorn 




tiie tale of love and crime, and lusted eagerly 

lor more. The pageant of the world flowed 

through the purring machine like water 

^through a sieve, a shadowy world of grey 

,»jid black, which, at least in its lack of colour, 

was very like their own. m 

The audience was in a state of incessant 
ebb and flow. Old men, old women, sweated 
seamstresses, married couples, shop assistants, 
servants, and myriads of children came to 
look upon the pictures. 

The avalanche of coppers turned into a 
golden flood, and the golden flood was sym- 
bolized by the steadily-increasing numerals 
in the credit account of Mr. Samuel Bracker 
at his bank. The stream of profits that 
flowed from the public-house and the mouldy, 
crumbling warrens of houses was as nothing 
compared with the rushing river of metal that 
passed through the hands of the wan-faced 
girl in the booking-office of the picture 

The children of the neighbourhood now 
lived only for the palace. They worshipped 
it with devotion and reverence. It formed 
the chief topic of their chatter and the chief 
vision of their dreams. It was something 
which for conspicuous brilliance was com- 
parable only to the sun. 

But none of them regarded it with more 
awe than little Mart Pemblin. He was five 
years old, had a pretty face, an adventurous 
mind, and much impulsive enterprise — seeds 
of future genius or crime. 

Mart lived on the top floor of the tenement 
that adjoined the picture theatre. Sometimes 
his mother took him. to see the films ; some- 
times it was his father. His father, however, 
usually preferred to patronize the establish- 
ment at the other end of the street, the 
Purple Vine, from whose doors everlastingly 
evaporated a pungent smell of stale beer and 
tartarean alcohol. 

The fairy-tales which the teachers at the 
kindergarten told Mart and his ragged, 
unwashed, and peak-faced companions were 
pale and dim compared with the clashing splen- 
dour and glare of the picture palace. To 
Mart it had become the one glorious fact of 
life, a sun about which the grey and dingy 
universe spun and frothed like the blue-grey 
water in his mother's wash-tub. 

He spent a great deal of his time staring 

at the sensational posters and the elegant 

1 plush curtains at the door. Mortally he 

envied the elder boys who had pennies to 

i spend, procured from unimaginably mysterious 

' sources. It was seldom that he possessed the 

necessary tuppence to enter the theatre 

VoL xMiL— 88. 

himself. Now and again he was able to save 
a halfpenny on some purchase which his 
mother sent him to make. 

Once or twice he imitated the example of 
some of the other children, and boldly begged 
from passers-by. Tuppence was the children's 
price, the " Open Sesame " to his wonder- 

Whenever his irascible mother ordered him 
into the house, he would lean from the window 
of a bare room that opened out above the 
roof of the picture palace and listen to the 
music that floated out of the ventilators and 

Directly beneath his window, and behind 
the theatre, was the new garage of raw yellow 
brick which Samuel Bracker had built. It 
opened on a narrow street, and contained 
two splendid cars, the visible symbols of his 
increasing wealth. 

This day Mart had achieved incredible 
riches in the shape of a sixpence he had found 
near the muddy tram-track. He spent the 
entire afternoon in the cinema, and received 
a thrashing from his mother when he 

She was a tall, sinewy woman with red 
arms and scant hair. " Mart ! " she screamed, 
" if you go near that there picter place 
again, I'll beat ye to a jelly." 

But the very next day, when Mart was sent 
out with his little satchel for a pound of sugar, 
his eyes were arrested by a gaudy poster in 
violet, red, and yellow. " The Burning of 
Rome," said the inscription, which he could 
not read. 

It represented a great fire. The conflagration 
was devouring whole blocks of buildings. 
Hurricanes of flames and sparks shot up 
against the skies. From the gutted walls 
of Caesar's palace puffed up enormous clouds 
of smoke. Gallant soldiers in brazen helmets 
were plunging like salamanders into the flames. 
And in the streets was a great crowd, evidently 
in blankets and nightgowns. They were 
cheering the Roman soldier who rescued 
a damsel from a top window. There was 
also a wicked, repulsive-looking man with 
a wreath about his head, who sang and played 
a funny something that looked like a harp. 
Mart, fascinated, stood open-mouthed and 
stared at the poster. 

If there was one thing that was able to 
plunge his young soul into instant ecstasy, 
it was a fire. He loved all the pictures in 
the theatre, save certain stupid ones dealing 
with plants and nasty insects, but the films 
that showed wallowing clouds of smoke, 
explosions, and sharp tongues of flame he 



simply adored. He had been born into the 
"dingy slums, a worshipper of light and fire. 

And here to-day was the most thrilling 
fire-film he had ever seen. How lucky he 
was still to have fQurpence of his own ! 

He entered the theatre and remained over 
three hoars. He feasted twice upon the 
spectacular coloured film of " The Burning of 
Rome " in all its various scenes. Finally he 
remembered the sugar, and that it was long 
past tea-time. 

He toddled up the dark aisle. He passed 
the little isolated cabinet at the rear of the 
hall, where the shafts of livid light streamed 
sharply out over the heads of the audience 
through the mote-laden air. A clicking, 
humming sound came from within, a breath 
of warm air from the crack in the slightly 
open door, a sputtering, a glare. A dark 
figure, across whose face lay bars and spots 
of brilliant light, was turning a handle. 
On the floor, close to the door, were several 
reels. These must be the things that made 
the magic pictures — the fire-pictures. 

He stretched out his dirty little paw, 
seized one of the reels, and put it in his satchel. 
Then he trotted out. He bought the sugar 
at the grocer's, and then, solacing himself 
with the thought of the feast he had just 
enjoyed, faced the lean and angry woman who 
had been waiting three hours for him to return. 
He received several hard slaps over hands 
and face, and howled lustily. 

" What's this ? " asked his mother, pulling 
forth the reel. 

Mart blubbered, but did not answer. 

He was thrust into the bare room without 
his tea. The reel was flung in after him, with 
the warning that his father would attend to 
him when he came home. Immediately he 
stopped sobbing, ran to the window, raised 
the sash, and looked out. 

He heard the tinkling of the piano in the 
theatre beneath. He amused himself by 
spitting down upon the green skylight in 
Brackets garage. But he soon wearied of 
this, and turned from the window. 

On the floor in one corner he saw the reel, 
a somewhat remarkable-lookirtg monster. 
One end had come loose, and several yards of 
the film now lay unrolled in great glistening 
loops, like some enormous, colourless tape- 
worm. He stared at it, approached it. He took 
it up and smelled it. It had a sickly, pungent 
odour. He next tasted it. It stuck to his lips. 
He marvelled at the little perforations along 
the edges, and when he held it to the light he 
cried with joy at the hundreds of little pictures, 
the fire-pictures, tinted a clear red and yellow. 

He had seen the film rolling into the 
machine. And in the machine there was 
a lantern, a light. Obviously a light was 
necessary. He thought of the lamp in the 
bedroom across the hall. 

Cautiously he opened the door and peered 
out. He saw his mother, her head bent over 
her crossed bare arms on the kitchen table, 
asleep — a pot of tea before her, a halfpenny 
newspaper at her elbow. He had learned 
certain motions of craft and stealth from 
watching the heroes or villains en the films. 

Carefully he tip -toed across the hall, took 
the lamp from the little table in the bedroom, 
snatched up a box of matches, and tip-toed 
back. He set the lamp upon the empty box 
near the window and lighted it. But the 
sun was still shining without. Darkness he 
felt was somehow necessary, so he let the old 
blind that lay coiled against the ceiling rattle 

He then took the coils of film in his hand 
and passed them awkwardly up and down 
before the lamp. But no pictures leaped into 
life against the dirty and broken plaster walls. 
He unravelled yards of the resilient celluloid. 
Then suddenly the iron reel slipped from his 
hands and rolled across the floor. The lamp 
was knocked over by a wTiggling loop. The 
naked flame leaped for the film. 

There was a bright, explosive blaze, the 
flame sputtered and writhed and hissed and 
leaped high into the air. It flew in fantastic 
curves over the floor and through the air, 
following the curves of the ribbon. It shot 
up near the window and caught the old blind, 
which in turn flared up against the ceiling, 
with its broken plaster and naked lath. 
There were blazing pools of oil upon the floor. 

Mart shrieked. He heard the scrape of his 
mother's chair, her hurried, flopping walk. 
She burst into the room. The flames gave 
a grotesque expression to her red face, with 
its high cheek-bones and little wisps of 
hair. She screamed, seized the burning reel 
with her big hands, and flung it through the 
flaming window. 

It roared through the air, blazing fiercely, 
like a comet, and dragging after it wriggling 
streamers of inextinguishable flame. There 
was a crash of glass somewhere below. Mrs. 
Pemblin gave one glance at the room. The 
fire was already eating itself into the unpro- 
tected walls and floor and ceiling. She gave 
Mart a cuff over the ear and flung him out 
into the hall. 

" Let it burn," she said, scowling. " Serve 
'im right— ths pig, the brute 1 What's the 
odds ? Ain't we insured ? " 







Original from 




She shut the door upon the burning room. 
She ran into the bedroom and tore open 
drawers and flung several dresses, papers, 
and odds and ends into a big basket. She 
tore the portrait of her father and mother 
from the wall, as well as that of little Artie, 
who had sickened of the bad drains in 
Brackets Rents and died. Then she ran 
into the Tritchen for an ancestral silver spoon 
she had forgotten. 

Her roving eye caught sight of the wash- 
tub in one corner, the bluish water full of 
muddy bubblfes, a bit of white linen protruding 
like an ear. With a gesture of rage and 
disgust, she lifted her foot and kicked the 
wash-tub off its stool. The tub tilted, the 
slate-coloured water ran over the kitchen 
and into the hall-way. Then, with her 
basket under one arm, and dragging Mart 
by the hand, she tramped down the stairs, 
yelling : — 

" Fire ! Fire ! Bracker's beastly rat-hole's 
goin' at last ! " 

The flaming, humming reel crashed through 
the skylight into the garage. It fell sputtering 
upon the oil-soaked floor amidst the petrol 
tins. An instant blaze leaped up, a fountain 
of flickering flame that soared to the wooden 
roof. There was no one in the garage ; the 
doors were locked. 

The two beautiful cars — one an open touring 
car, the other a large limousine — stood in the 
centre of the shed, sleek, glistening monsters. 
They reflected the fire from their polished 
enamelled flanks, from their glistening brass 
and nickel, from the plate-glass of the limou- 
sine, from the steel bosses in the thick 
armoured wheels. 

There was an explosion that flung a rain 
of flaming petrol over the entire interior. 
It was followed by another, and still another. 
Great streams of blazing fluid flowed over 
the floor, against the walls, under the cars. 
The interior of the garage became a mass of 
solid flame that roared and sang like a 
furnace. The magnificent cars burned like 
billets of wood, their japanned sides 
buckled and crackled, the inflated tyres burst 
like cannon-shots. The fire attacked the 
dusty, useless windows that led into the back 
of the picture theatre adjoining. 

The people in the picture theatre were 
feasting upon the multiple splendours of 
"The Burning of Rome." Several of the 
younger members of the rapt audience had 
just hissed the monstrous Nero, who sat and 
smiled and played his lyre and sang as his 
city went up in flames. Then portentous 

tidings drifted in from the world without, 
through the heavy plush curtains. Excited 
whispers ran from seat to seat. 

" There's a fire next door in Bracker's 
Rents ! " 

What was the painted photographic fire 
in an imitation ancient Rome compared with 
the thrilling reality of a fire next door ? 
One by one the audience left and hurried out, 
as the intelligence flew about. Many of the 
spectators, chiefly weary housewives, were 
themselves living in Bracker's Rents. They 
rushed frantically from the place. 

Soon the films were flickering to no one but 
an old man and an old woman who had gone 
to sleep and were nodding in the threepenny 
seats. A choking smell filled the theatre. 
The operator, abandoning his search, punc- 
tuated by curses, for the continuation of 
" Rome," stopped his machine. The manager 
came rushing in from behind the screen. 

" We'd better get out," he yelled to the 
operator and the attendants. " Wake those 
two old duffers. Old Bracker's garage is 
blazing like a bonfire, and the theatre's 
catching, too." 

Unceremoniously they bundled out the 
old couple and rushed from the darkened 
theatre into the street just as a spurt of vivid 
flame shot from behind the hangings of the 
arch. It flickered across the pale screen, as 
if in mockery of the crude, tinted flames 
which had been playing there a moment 

The fire was swooping in great billows 
across the roofs of Bracker's Rents. It 
reached forward as with long arms to embrace 
the entire row of the foul, decrepit, jerry- 
built slum-houses. It ate its way through 
from wall to wall. The flames from the 
cinema theatre and the garage rose in scarlet 
sheets and spirals to the heavens, and 
thick brownish clouds of smoke wallowed up. 

The tenants of Bracker's Rents were flinging 
their mattresses and clothing out of the 
windov/s and dragging their few sticks of 
miserable furniture into the street. A 
hundred willing hands assisted them. A long 
row of rickety bedsteads, tables, chairs, 
bedding, china, rugs, lamps, cheap jardinieres, 
and bird-cages ran like a barricade along the 
street and against the walls of the houses 

They had saved most of their pitiful 
possessions. Their more valuable things 
slumbered safely enough in Ritzig's pawnshop 
in the High Street. The housewives and 
children j?tacd about m groups, gossiping 



loudly, or watched the flames in dumb 
fascination. Some of them laughed and jested. 
It was Brackets loss, not theirs. Gipsy-like, 
they " didn't mind movin\" They deplored, 
however, the burning of the convenient 
picture palace, for this had provided them 
with much amusement. 

It was the common opinion that Bracker 
had started the fire himself. His buildings 
had been condemned by the County Council. 
What could be more natural than that he 
should try to collect his insurance beforehand? 
One loud-tongued woman, however, scouted 
this idea. 

" IJe ain't got the gumption to do it," 
she shouted. " You mark my words. It's 
them there Suffragettes." 

Little Mart Pemblin sat with his mother 
at a second-storey window in the house of 
some friendly neighbours opposite, and stared 
in ecstasy at the blaze. 

Before the engines and firemen arrived, 
the flames had swept over the entire length 
of Bracker's Rents, and were burning down- 
ward towards the street. The handsome 
white front of the cinema theatre was scarred 
with flame and blasted with smoke. The 
plaster ornaments crumbled back to lime 
and dust, the hundreds of incandescent 
globes went off like a fusillade of rifle- 

The engines stood and puffed and panted 
and breathed their brown smoke into the a^r 
from their black throats. The flat woven 
hoses which the firemen dragged through the 
streets inflated themselves to thick and 
swollen pythons, rigid and inert. Snow- 
white fountains of water soared into the air, 
great billows of steam arose, a section of 
roof fell in and sent whirlwinds of sparks 
and cinders up against the sunset skies. 
A wall quivered, tottered, balanced, then 
fell crashing into the sea of crimson and amber 
that rioted behind the doors and windows. 

Firemen in gleaming helmets that seemed 
like masses of golden fire rushed to and fro, 

Suddenly little Mart clapped his hands and 
cried : — 

" There's daddy ! " 

A man with grimy clothes and smudged 
face, evidently an iron-moulder, had dashed 
forward, evading the policemen. He ran into 
the doorway of his house and tried to mount 
the steps. A blast of smoke and flame shot 
out as from a mouth and drove him back. 
He choked and rubbed his eyes, and shouted 
inarticulate things about his wife and child. 
The policeman who dragged him back pointed 

out the lean woman who stood at the second- 
storey window opposite, shouting : — 

"Jim! Jim!" 

The crowd cheered. James Pemblin went 
into the house, and a few moments later 
stood beside his wife and little son. 

A taxi-cab came rushing up. Out of it 
^tumbled a short, burly man, in silk hat and 
an ulster with an astrachan collar. There 
was horror in his eyes and a sort of impotent 
wrath. A policeman tried to stop him, but 
he roared out a few words and strode in front 
of the row of blazing houses. But he gave 
them scarcely a glance. His eyes were fixed 
upon the stately but sham " palace " that 
was crumbling into ashes and cinders. He 
gnawed his scrubby iron-grey moustache, 
and strode down the burning street. A stout 
Irishwoman shouted : — 

" Bless me, if that ain't Bracker himself ! " 

Bracker had never been a familiar figure 
in Bracker's Rents. But now he was instantly 
surrounded by a group of furious housewives. 
They thrust their angry faces into his own ; 
he saw their eyes flash, and heard the torrents 
of abuse they poured upon him. 

They reviled him, scorched him with their 
tongues; they cursed his pestiferous drains, 
his crushing rents, the foulness, neglect, 
and decay that lorded it from end to end 
of his street. They called him blood- 
sucker and murderer and firebrand. He was 
responsible for the death of their babies, for 
their illnesses, for the evictions of his accursed 
ageftt. They hoped his " pub " would burn, 
too— his dirty " pub," where their husbands 
spefrt their wages on poisonous beer. 

One sinewy virago drove her clenched fist 
down upon his silk hat and crushed it over 
his furry ears. Another grasped his astrachan 
collar and half tore it from the coat. Mr. 
Samuel Bracker imagined himself in hell, 
surrounded by gibbering she-fiends. 

He fled down the street between the rows 
of enraged women. They hurled ill-directed 
missiles at him, plates, potatoes, coal from 
scuttles, scraps of food. An open tin of 
dripping caught him on the shoulder and 
spattered over his handsome coat. An egg, 
flung with a deadly aim by a young boy, 
struck him on the back like a bomb and made 
a great sun with golden rays. 

The children hissed him as they had hissed 
Nero upon the films a little while before. The 
women yelled to the firemen to turn their 
hoses upon him. The hounded landlord fled 
towards the Purple Vine at the other end 
of the street- parting; sweating, covered with 
soot and cinders, and splashed with the 

'3 02 



■ r ... . . ( (wx-tI. UngmaTfrom 





by Google 

Original from 



puddles into which he plunged. Behind him 
Bracker's Rents were now only Brackets 

Little Mart leaned out of the window and 
chuckled with delight. The spectacle was 
sublime. It was more beautiful than the 
film he had seen that afternoon, " The Burning 
of Rome." The brazen helmets of the English 
firemen were brighter and bigger than the 
brazen helmets of the Roman soldiers. This 
conflagration was devouring a palace more 
gorgeous than that of the Caesars. And the 
crowd was bigger, a brave and jolly and reck- 
less crowd that found great sport in the fire. 

How they had laughed when the women 
stormed Bracker ! An ecstasy possessed little 
Mart. He shouted to that sea of cloth caps 
in the street below and waved his hands. 
His father stared solemnly into the street 
and clutched him grimly by the belt of his 
little frock. 

An Italian woman with a piano-organ tried 
to push her cumbrous vehicle through the 
crowd. The line of. police barred her way, 
so she let down the instrument and began 
plying the handle. It was an excellent oppor- 
tunity ; she scented pence. And suddenly 
there was loud and sprightly music that 
mingled with the dull, throaty roar of the 
conflagration, the hissing of the streams of 
water, the shouts of the firemen. 

And now little Mart understood why that 
man with the leaves round his head had played 
his funny harp during the fire. The slum- 
child laughed at the flames, and applauded 
them with glad cries, just as Nero had hailed 
them with song. He did not know that they 
were purging the city of a plague-spot, wiping 
out a long, black, evil score of death, 
poverty, and disease. 

A young man, accompanied by their 
friendly neighbour, came pushing into the 
room. He carried a box of polished wood, 
which had three long legs shod with iron 
points. This he planted in the adjoining 
window and began turning the handle. The 
operation puzzled Mart. This was a real 
fire. What had the film machine to do 
with it? 

" 'E's takin' the photigrafts for the films ! " 
whispered his mother. " And there's another 
one o' them on the roof yonder." 

Upon the cornice of the pompous " funeral 
furnishers' " establishment diagonally across 
the street stood a man, sharply outlined 
against the sunset sky. He, too, was turning 
a crank in a similar little box on three legs. 
On the top of a tall step-ladder that reared 
suddenly out of the crowd appeared a third 
film photographer. Mrs. Pemblin gazed at 
the fire. Its vastness, might, splendour, the 
confusion, and the crowds touched her 
imagination. Its ruddy reflex seemed to 
soften her seamed and faded face into a little 
of its youthful comeliness. A dreamy and 
pensive look crept into her faded blue eyes. 

She bent over and whispered proudly into 
her husband's ear : — 

" And to think of our little Mart bein' 
the cause of all that — 'im, the little nipper — 
and a single match ! " 

" Good thing I paid that fire insurance 
last week," growled her husband. 

" Good thing you didn't go to the Purple 
Vine last Sat'dy night," she replied. 

The soul-stirring melody of the " Mar- 
seillaise " poured torrentially from the labour- 
ing piano-organ in the street below. The 
flames began to die down under the tre- 
mendous cannonade of water. Evening came. 
The electric lights sprang into life. The 
crowd dispersed, the snorting fire-engines 
rumbled homeward. The dispossessed tenants 
crowded into the friendly but already over- 
crowded houses of their neighbours over the 
way. The black and jagged ruins still smoked 
feebly, and now and again sent up a wisp of 
smoke or a jet of steam to the stars. 

A few days thereafter little Mart Pemblin, 
in the company of his mother, was again 
indulging his passion for fire-pictures. He 
sat in a plush-covered seat of the Electric 
Pavilion in a neighbouring street, and gazed 
with wide eyes at a film entitled " The Great 
Fire at Bracker's Rents, Poplar." 

It was not red and yellow, like that of 
Rome ; but it was much more beautiful. It 
was his own fire ; he had made it all himself. 

by Google 

Original from 

"As Funny as They C 





The following section is the second of a series founded upon an entirely new 
idea— a different well - known humorous artist assuming the post of editor every 
month and doing his best to make his particular instalment " as funny as he can." 

Arrangements have already been made with the following artists : — 


It will be interesting to hear from our readers at the end of a few months which 
editor they consider has been most successful in making them laugh 



Dear Sir, 

I did not know 
what 1 was letting 
myself in for 
when I accepted 
the invitation of "The Strand Magazine" 
to edit six pages of humorous drawings. 
At first I pictured myself seated at my 
desk, and glowing with pleasure in the 
happy process of giving commissions to 
my artist friends— all suddenly grown 
deferential — and handing out the guineas 
in payment for their work. Instead of 
which— but you will see from the illus- 
trations how far my efforts have been 
rewarded with success. 

First I asked the famous artist Harry 
Rountree to draw me a page of humor- 
ous types of London. But in my enthusiasm 
I forgot that he has won his fame as an 
animal artist Rountree, however, was 
not at all taken back by my request. In 

fact, he seemed to think it perfectly natural 
Vol- Kiviii.-ag. 

OriginftlrfcwTfciP which—" 






^ ■* -w^ ?»r^ ** * 

*V**-*^- >*■ 


that all sorts of queer beasts should figure 
among the specimens of London life, At 
any rate, the result of my oversight is that 
all these London types appear as animals 
—except for a fish or two I 

Then 1 thought of Heath Robinson 
and decided to ask him to do me one of 
his complicated absurdities- The draw- 
ing came along all right but this time 
I for one fail to see the joke. It may be 

obvious to Heath Robinson — perhaps 
even your readers may find it funny; 
but not I, for the diner in the picture is 

For a relief I went to Alfred Leete, 
Knowing his inventive power I said to 
myself : " No need to bother about detailed 
instructions for Leete— all I shall have to 
do will be to ask him to do something funny 
for me .in the [ Strand/, and I can leave 






the rest to him," But you see how si ructions; it just shows how far a 

impossible it is to rely on anyone' inven^ really sensible man can go wrong if he 

tiwness working the right way. Look tries, 

at hi* drawing and notice with what Then it struck rn* that it would be 

blank tireralness he has taken hii in- quite a 

?r Emanuel 

3 oh 



for a humorous sketch, meaning, of course, trated his article* However, as the 

a literary composition, Wrong again, alleged drawing is here 1 have had a block 

Emanuel agreed, but thinking I was made from it, and with apologies to the 

expecting drawings (from him I) he illus- Eitar.BffiWOt (IteJrijSTMders* 





Written and Illustrated by WALTER EMANUEL. 

"PHERE was once a lovely tam-er named Za-za, and some cru-el li-ons named Fi'do r Envily, 
Li -on, Kru-ger, Jane, Caes^ar, and Rough, and a dev-er Clown named Lit- tie SmiJ-ax. 

They were all in a Cir-cus. 

One eve-ning Za-za was not feel-ing well. She had a bll-i-ous head-ache. She said to the Own^er 
of ihe Cir-cus, 'I feel ill. Need J go in-to the cage of Li-ons ? M The Own-er, who was a cru-el man, 
said, "You must. The Public must not be dis^ap-point-ed." •., 

So brave Za-za went in, but this eveming she had no pow-er ov^er the Li-ons. They re-fused to 
0- bey her, and sud-den-ly Caes-ar and Rough rushed at Za-za P and knocked her down, "Come on, 
oaVer li-ons," said Caes-ar, "now we have her." 


Ever- y- one was in shrieks, 

"Fetch red -hoi porkers," cried the Owner. But no red-hot porkers could be found, 

"Oh dear, oh dear," cried Lit- tie Smil-ax, for he loved Za-za. Then a beau-ti-ful smile light- ed 
up his face. He had thought of some -thing. He ran swift -ly, and fetched his sham red-hot po-kei\ 
Then he rushed to the cage with it, and when the cru^el li-ons saw him, they cried, "Oh, look out, 
here comes a red-hot po-ker I " and they left Za-za, and ran to the far end of the cage. 

So Za-za was saved, and a derg-y-man was fetched, and Za-za mar-ried Lit- tie Smit-ax r and they 
had ev-er so man-y i it -tie clown-lets and co!-um-b±nes, and the cru^ei li-ons were pun-ished by hav-ing 
no pud-ding with their dinger for a whole week* 

I had already thought of G. E. Studdy, 
and had asked him for a humorous page 
something like those he does for the 
" Sketch/' Studdy seemed to have for- 
gotten the commission, but at length the 
drawing came— last of all— and, as the 

reader will see, with more than a hint in 
it that h2 would like payment in advance. 
Well, here are the six pages, but next 
time I shall have to ask the humorists to 
be a little more serious about their 


3 1 * 


feOQrT* *l CflhLJ DO khl NO^ETT^R 5l^ .UNLESS L BLOCKS trl* 

-^eJhut M e>ucr[ tn ■ What tx£ dooce nl*t ? Theyr^ ftfl'errrtf 
soar* *W*u. siq ,\f uNfoNt wo^To m^\ n^ , I SHOULD SHY 

Tfte P«T£f*T r S Expired* 

&4dA- J *"^-W 

^ ^ ^u*. f *-*■**. **** - 



£T «rf ^7£^*-*V 

^A*t*-fr *^" ««-^ 

*MR. O. K, 5TUDDY SENT IN HIS HUMOROUS i'ACE w nif} r Wfl§ffflJJftf 

'"" '"""M^WSf MICHIGAN 





In trie Home ox the Blizzard* 



Last month s article left Sir Douglas Mawson ana his comrade, Di\ Mertz, 
alone in the wilderness of ice,, hundreds of miles from camp- In the 
following article he concluded his thrilling narrative of the horrors of the 
journey, during which he lost his companion and from which he only 
just managed to struggle hack to safety. The article is fully illustrated hy 
some most remarkable photography and hy drawings made under Sir Douglas 

Mawson s personal supervision* 

Pk$£$£rtzfi/xs by /, F. JJt*r/ry t txegpt wktrC ttktftaiH uanthntd* 





Mertz and I 
Go On Alone, 

WHEN com- 
t ramp 
the road to any* 
where through 
a lonely, bliz- 
land, in hunger, 
want, a n d 


and fates of 
each are inttr- 
woven as a 
wondrous fabric of friendship and affection. 

The shock of Ninnis's death struck home 
and deeply stirred us. 

We felt the more keenly because the 
accident happened at a time when our spirits 
were at their highest point reached on the 
journey. A mollifying influence was, no 
doubt, our attitude towards undesirable 
emergencies ; strung to the outlook of men 
on active military service — prepared to take 
things as they come, never knowing what of 
the morrow. 

Tramping home on the long trail to the hut 
on the night of December 15th, there was no 

Copyright, 19x4, by 

immediate anxiety for Mertz and myself, 
only the care of a famished interior and a 
doubtful outlook ahead. For the return 
journey a course was laid well south of the 
outgoing track. By so doing it was antici- 
pated that most of the obstacles to rapid 
travelling would be avoided, 

For fourteen 
miles the way led 
up rising snow- 
slopes until an 
elevation of over 
two thousand 
five hundred feet 
had been reached, 
After that vari- 
able grades were 
the rule. The 
five dogs required 
helping to drag 
the sledge along, 
light though it 
was. The mid- 
night sun shone 
in llu' south, and 
on through the 
morning hours 
we tramped, glad SIR «««»■« mawson. 

, .. r . . ° a THE LEADER OK THE 

to be ticking off expedition. 

t. e miles that h* t» « a sw«» 




lay between us and ample food. The sky 
rapidly became overcast in the early morning 
hours and showers of snow fell. In such a 
light, in the midst of a snowy landscape, with 
no shadows to give contrast, it is impossible 
to distinguish even the detail of the ground 
underfoot. Stumbling over unseen ridges in 
the hard ntot surface, the eyes strain to 
catch a glimpse of the ground ahead. Coloured 
glasses become blocked with the driving snow, 
the naked eyes are blinded with the visionless 

About 6 a.m., having done twenty miles, 
camp was pitched — a lengthy process on 
account of the makeshift gear. There was 
little sleep for me that day, for I was attacked 
in both eyes with painful snow- blindness. 
During the time that we rested in the sleeping- 
bags I got Mertz to treat one of my eyes to 
three doses, the other to two doses, of zinc 
sulphate and cocaine — the infallible remedy 
in such cases. 

That night ours was a mournful procession 
— the sky completely overcast, snow falling, 
I with one eye bandaged, and the dog John- 
stone, broken down, strapped on the top of 
the load on the sledge. There was scarcely 
a sound, only the rustle of the thick, soft 
snow as we pushed on, tired but full of hope. 
The dogs dumbly pressed forward in their 
harness, forlorn but eager to follow. Their 
weight now told little upon the sledge, the 
work mainly falling upon ourselves. As 
there was soft snow upon the ground Mertz 
tried hauling the sledge on ski, but came to 
the conclusion that it did not pay, and hence- 
forth never again used the ski. 

Near the magnetic pole as we were, our 
compass was of very little use, and to steer 
anything like a straight course without ever 
seeing anything about us was a difficult task. 
The only check upon the correctness of our 
bearing was the direction in which lay the 
old hard winter sastrugi, channelled out along 
nearly north and south lines. As these were 
obliterated by the newly-fallen snow, frequent 
halts had to be called to investigate the 
buried surface. Only eleven miles were 
covered and camp had to be pitched. 

Losing the Dogs. 

There Johnstone was shot. He had always 
been a very faithful, hard-working, and willing 
creature, with rather droll ways with him, 
and we were sorry that his end should come 
so soon. He could never be accused of being 
a handsome dog; in fact, was generally dis- 
reputable and dirty. Curiously enough, when 
we couked some of his meat that night, the 

odour that might have been associated with 
his exterior appearance seemed to pervade 
his tissues. Miserable and thin all the dogs 
were when they reached this stage of starva- 
tion. The dog-meat was tough, stringy, and 
without body or any trace of fat. We ate it 
either roughly frizzled over the Primus flame 
or finely chopped, mixed with a little pemmi- 
can, and brought to the boil in a large pot of 
water. We by no means ate our fill, for each 
dog yielded but little, and the major part of 
the animal was fed to the survivors. They 
cracked the bones and ate the skin ; nothing 

A start was made again at 7.30 p.m. on the 
evening of December 17th, and a wretched, 
trying night spent marching until 8 a.m. next 
day under an overcast sky with occasional 
falls of snow, literally feeling the way along 
by the buried winter sastrugi. JNojae of the 
dogs except Ginger gave any help with the 
load, and Mary gave in and had to be carried 
on the sledge. Poor Mary had been a 
splendid dog, and it was with real sorrow that 
she was disposed of at the morning's camp, 
to be divided up amongst the remaining dogs 
and ourselves. The run was eighteen and a 
half miles. The want of proper food was 
already making itself felt. 

For several succeeding days the course lay 
over a hard, slippery surface, broken by high 
saslrugi; all this time the sun was never 
seen, the sky remaining overcast. A moderate 
southerly and south-easterly wind swept the 
snow away to the north as fast as it fell. 
Stumbling over the invisible sastrugi, slipping 
and falling on the polished surface, the miles 
ahead were laboriously reduced. On Decem- 
ber 20th we came near losing Haldane, the 
big grey wolf-dog, in a crevasse. Miserably 
thin from starvation, the dogs no longer 
filled their harnesses. As we pulled Haldane 
up after breaking through a deep, sheer- 
walled crevasse, he slipped out of his harness 
just as he reached the top. Fortunately it 
was possible to seize hold of his hair at that 
moment and land him safely, else would have 
been lost many days' rations. 

Haldane was then nearly at the end. We 
dragged him on the sledge for some miles, 
but he did not revive. When so far gone as 
he was the dogs were too weak to bite their 
food. They lay with it between their paws 
and licked it, but had no strength to bite. 
Until in that extreme state they were 
ravenous, and great care had to be taken when 
tethering them at the camps to prevent them 
gnawing the woodwork of the sledge, the 
^Ffl^^TT# c feim^ n S at a,L Breaking 



away occasionally, they caused untold trouble 
by eating the sledge-straps and fur boots. 

On December 23rd we found ourselves 
amongst large crevasses, in heavy falling 
snow. Though a good daily average hud 
been maintained up till then, the continuance 
of bad weather and the undoubtedly 
weaker state in which we ourselves 
were decided us to abandon every- 
thing that could possibly be dis- 
pensed with. Thus were thrown 
away all our instruments except 
the theodolite .including camera 
and exposed photographic 
films. The tent frame was 
made lighter by constructing 
two poles, each four feet 
high, out of the telescopic 
theodolite legs, dis- 
carding the heavier 
pieces of sledge 
in use. 
end came. 

Her bones were 
broken up and 
stewed, making a 
very acceptable 
soup, though the 
marrow contained 
not a vestige of fat, 
a substance for 
which we longe d . In 
view of the dark 
outlook the food 
ration had to be still 
further cut down. In 
such hunger we got 
no proper sleep, a dull 
gnawing sensation grip- 
ping us all the time. The 
question of food was ever 
in our thoughts 
Dozing in the fur 
bags we dreamt of 
gorgeous spreads 
and dinner-parties 
at home; but 
tramping along 
through the snow 
we racked our 

brains as to how to make the most use 
of the meagre supply of dogs '-meat on hand. 

Our supply of kerosene promised to be 
ample, for none had been lost in the accident, 
It was found that it paid to spend a longer 
time over the cooking and boil the dogs'- 

Vol. *lviti— 40l 

meat thoroughly ; thus was prepared a tasty 
soup and a supply of very welcome and edible 
meat , in which the dried muscle-tissue and 
gristle was reduced more or less to the con- 
sistency of a jelly* The paws took much 
the longest time to cook, but treated in this 
way became quite digestible. 

Christmas morning came round, 
and with it the sky cleared. Once 
more in sunlight our spirits rose, 
though a southerly wind accom- 
panied by low drift took the edge 
off delight. Looking down the 
shallow depression of the Ninnis 
Glacier , the low outline of Dixson 
Island, forty miles to the north, 
could be seen mi raged up on 
the horizon. Sighting this 
old landmark gave us great 
mj ^Mf satisfaction 3 for though 

mfk 1 we knew that 

* mm ^ t ^ k we could not 
W he far 

& * ^to oi \ dead 

/V*V' *L ^^ reckon- 

* V travelling in thick and 
overcast weather, it was 
not possible to steer an 
absolutely true course. 

Camping :tt 9,30 a. m. 3 

we wished each other 

merrier Christmases in 

the future, and treated 

ourselves to an extra 

port i on of d og - ste w. 

At noon I made a 

latitude observation, 

and, taking a bearing 

on to Dixson Island, 

found that the air -line 

distance to winter 

quarters was about 

one hundred 

and sixty 



the western 

side of the 

Ninnis Gla- 

cier, the 

course was 

altered to north-west instead of west, as it 

had been before. This brought the prevailing 

wind more behind, and in future it was 

possible to make considerable use of a sail 

This consisted in propping up the tent 

cover by a ski ja_shed as a.mast to.the sledoe. 

u ' V ERil T Y -Jf ffll LHF- j A N 





For some days alter Christmas wo were 
favoured by bright sunlight, but steady light 
to moderately strong winds continued, accom- 
[Mnied by more or less low drift-snow. The 
land began to rise steadily and occasional 
steep slopes were encountered, but the sail 
helped. With bright sunlight our spirits kept 
tip, though we were uncommonly hungry. 
Whenever a halt was called for a few minutes to 
res tj the conversation in variably turned on what 
we would do on arrival on board the Aurora 
and in civilization. The chances of not reach- 
ing winter quarters were never dwelt upon. 

The makeshift tent was long, narrow, and 
low ; the floor area just that of two men lying 
close together, and one could not rise above 
a sitting position. This hampered our move- 
ments and hindered all operations connected 
with camping. 

In sunshine it was comparatively warm 
within the tent. The addition of the heat 
from the Primus, kept burning for an unusually 
long time preparing the meat, caused thawing 
of the drift-snow lodged on the lee side of 
the tent. Thus we had frequently to put up 
with an unwelcome drip. Moisture came from 
the flour also. In this way the sleeping-bags 
Ik came wet and disagreeable. 

As soon as cooking was over the tent cooled 
and the wet walls froze, caked and stiff with ice, 

At this time we were eating largely of the 
dog-meat, washed down by very dilute cocoa. 

Added to this were one or two ounces oi 
chocolate or raisins, three or four ounces of 
mixed pemmican and biscuit per day, to 
give value to what otherwise was chiefly 
useful as filling. The total weight of solid 
food consumed per man per day was probably 
about fourteen ounces. A little butter atwi 
Glaxo were saved for emergency. 

On December 27th, after the regular do*:- 
meal supper, we indulged in the luxury tfi 
half a biscuit and three-quarters of an ounff 
of butter t washed down with dilute tea. tht 
latter none the less welcome for its beim tfe 
fifth time of boiling the old leaves. 

Drawing: Lots for Food by " Shut Eye. 

On December 28th, Ginger, the last doe, 
who had held out -so well and had been some 
sort of a help until a few days before, could 
walk no longer. It was a pitiful thing w 
finish off so faithful and fine a dog; Quoting 
my diary : iA Had a grand breakfast off 
Ginger's skull, thyroids, and brain/* 1 *<D 
remember the occasion. As there was nothing 
available to divide it. the skull was boiled 
whole. Then the right ami left halves w?rt 
drawn for by the old and well-establish^ 
sledging practice of " shut-eye,"* after whu'h 

* On sledging journeys it is p>ual to apportion aJJ f-Ktd*^* 
in as nearly even portions rs possibk ; then one man tnnisa* 3 T 
am! NMtttar, pointing to a heap s as^s '*Whu*e:r IH Th* rtP^ 
from the one not looking comes *' Yoim™ or " Mine" ■** «* 
t*« may be. Th"* an impartial and satisfactory di*i-^ Jfi * 
the food is mffnthrd, rim method w*j adopted iliJWi£bfflit ** 



3 IS 



we took it in turns, passing it from one to the 
other, eating back to the middle line. The 
brain was scooped out with the wooden spoon. 

Hertz Shows Signs of Breaking Down. 

That day, alter an unusually large break- 
fast of dogs '-meat, I felt in good form for 
travelling, but Mertz was not his usual bright 
self, I was at a loss to know why, for that 
day the wind was very favourable, and we 
cut out fifteen miles on an uphill track, and 
were again at an elevation of about three 
thousand feet above sea-level, having fallen 
to some fifteen hundred feet when crossing 
the N inn is Glacier. 

Heavy snow commenced to fall on December 
3 1 st , and for days wretched weather prevailed, 
seriously hindering progress. Mertz stated 
that he felt that the dogs'-meat was not doing 
him much good, and suggested that we should 
give it up for a time and eat a small ration 
of the ordinary sledging food only, of which 
we still had some days' supply carefully 
husbanded. It tasted very sweet compared 
with the dogs'-meat, but the ration was so 
small that it left one painfully empty. 

Several days slipped by in which, an 
account of thick drift, camp was not broken. 
Mertz was not up to his usual form, and 
thought that in the long run the rest would 
be advantageous. He did not complain at 
all , except of the dampness of his ske ping- 

bag, Questioned particularly, he admitted 
pains in the abdomen. As I had a con- 
tinuous gnawing sensation in the stomach, I 
took it that he had the same, possibly more 
acute. However, after January ist he ex- 
pressed a dislike to biscuit, which seemed 
rather strange. Later he expressed a desire 
for Glaxo, and our small store was turned 
over to him, I taking a considerable ration of 
the dogs'-meat in exchange. It was no use, 
however, for when we tried to cover a few 
more miles the exertion told very heavily on 
him, and it was plain that he was in a more 
serious condition than myself. On January 
6th, after much persuasion, Mertz agreed to 
try another stage, for the weather was better 
than it had been for some days. The grade 
was slightly downhill, the wind well behind, 
and there was almost no drift in the air, 
though the sky was overcast. Unfortu- 
nately, the surface was slippery, and it was 
not possible, on account of the light, to make 
out the irregularities of the surface , and so 
falls were frequent. These told very much 
on my companion, and, after consistently 
demurring, he at last consented to ride on 
the sledge. With the wind behind it required 
no great exertion to bring the load along, 
though it often pulled up short suddenly 
against sastrugL After covering three and a 
half miles my companion had got so cold by 
inaction in the wind that ther^ was nothing 




to do but pitch the tent. He was 
evidently very much depressed* 
though little was said beyond a 
discussion on the subject of London 

We were then about one hundred 
miles south-east of the hut, where 
food and plenty awaited us. How 
short a distance it seems to the 
vigorous , but what a lengthy jour- 
ney for weak and famished men ! 

The skin was peeling off us both 
all over, and a very poor apology 
took its place, which burst readily 
and rubbed raw in many places. 
The day before I remember Mertz 
ejaculating, " Just a moment/' 
and, reaching over, lifted from my 
ear a perfect skin- cast. On in- 
vestigation I was able to do the 
same for him- As we never took 
our clothes off, the peelings of skin 
and hair from our bodies worked 
down into the bottom of our under- 
trousers and socks, and regular 
clearances were made. 

During the night I made the 
following note in my diary : 4I A 
long and wearisome night. If only 
I could get on — but 1 must stop 
with Xavier, and he does not 
appear to be improving. Both our 
chances are going now." 

January 7th,— " Up at 8 a.m., 
it having been arranged last night 
that we would go on to-day at all 
costs, sledge-sailing, with Xavier 
in his bag on the sledge." It was 
a sad blow to find that Mertz was 
in a weak state and required helping in and 
out of his bag, A few hours' longer rest 
at least appeared necessary before any 
travelling could be undertaken. u I have 
to turn in again also to kill time and keep 
warm — for I feel the cold very much now," 

I Lose My Comrade* 

" At 10 a.m, I get up to dress Xavier and 
prepare food, but find him in a kind of fi